


it's the side effects that save us

by renaissance



Series: side effects [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Ensemble Cast, Falling In Love, M/M, Off-screen Animal Death, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: After a sudden personal tragedy and a narrow defeat at the Grand Prix Final, Viktor is ready to throw it all away—until he sees a video of the skater who beat him performing the free skate he couldn't.Or;plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose...





	1. Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's me again, back at it with another canon divergence AU! this one started out as "what if i did a role reversal AU without doing an age swap" and turned into... this. same old, but different. the french saying in the summary can be translated as "the more it changes, the more it's the same thing."
> 
> title is a song lyric from "graceless" by the national, because we're all Sad Adults™ here.

Viktor does not cry.

Last night, he’d cried all the tears he could and now there’s nothing left in him. He feels empty and worn out, like a tracksuit over a sparkly costume over a flesh suit masquerading as a fully-functioning human. He doesn’t cry because he’s still the world number one—thankfully, something like that won’t change overnight—and he still has to give interviews and act like he’s happy and give no excuses.

He hasn’t told anyone yet. His _excuses_.

There’s an empty bathroom a little bit away from the crowd around Katsuki, and that’s where Viktor finds solace. He shuts himself up in a stall and tries to cry, but the tears don’t come—he’s worthless like this, really.

His phone rings with a call from Agata. He debates picking it up. It’s not her fault, what happened, and she had cried too when she told him, but he doesn’t trust himself to talk to her without snapping. He lets it ring out three times before guilt gets the better of him, and he hits _Answer_.

“Hi, Viktor,” she says. “How’re you holding up?”

“Yeah. Hi.” He takes a shaky, shallow breath. “I’m alright. How are things over there?”

“‘I’m more worried about you,” Agata says. “I watched the free skate with my junior class today. They’re all so proud of you. But—”

“What, they weren’t disappointed?” Okay, he’s snapping now. This is a thing he’s doing. “To watch me fail? To see their ‘national hero’ miss first place by _less than a point_?”

Agata heaves a sigh. “Viktor. We would be proud of you if you’d missed first place by a hundred-point margin. You know that.”

He doesn’t. He _doesn’t_ know. He wonders if Agata told them— _It must be disappointing to see him so off-form_ , he imagines her saying, _but don’t worry! It’s because his dog died last night! He’ll be back to normal in no time!_

He hasn’t told anyone, because that would be making excuses, when really he has no-one to blame for this but himself.

“I don’t know what to do next,” he admits.

“You do what you always do,” Agata says. “You go out there and you smile for the cameras, then you come home, and you keep training.”

She had taught him when he was in the junior class, too. Sick days were excused, bad moods were not tolerated. If you suffered a loss—competitive, personal, or otherwise—you came back the next day, and you kept training. If you were lucky, Agata would make you her blintzes for lunch to cheer you up. Viktor knows that when he gets back to his flat he’ll let her stay for dinner as thanks for housesitting, which really means that she’ll cook, because they both know he’s hopeless in the kitchen. It’s something to look forward to, but hollow, knowing that Makkachin won’t be there to greet him too.

“Well,” he says, “that’s what I have to do.”

“Then do it,” Agata says.

Viktor is about to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a sharp pounding against the cubicle door. The voice that comes with it through belongs unmistakably to Yuri: “Old man! Yakov told me to get you. The press conference is about to start.”

“Sorry, Agata,” Viktor says, “I’ve got to go.”

He gets up as calmly as he can and opens the door, looking down on Yuri.

“Well?” Yuri demands.

Viktor takes a breath. “Makkachin passed away. Last night, before the free skate.”

Yuri opens his mouth and he looks like he’s about to yell at Viktor that it’s no excuse—which is what Viktor wants to hear—but he doesn’t. He tames his snarl. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It was old age,” Viktor says. “There was nothing anyone could’ve done.”

“Still,” Yuri says. “Sucks that you couldn’t be there.”

Viktor can’t say anything to that. It’s true. He rubs a hand over his eyes just in case he’s crying. He’s not.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

 _That_ annoys Yuri. “What, because you don’t want them to think you’re making excuses? Viktor, you’ve had that fucking dog since before I was born. People are gonna understand that if _anything_ , that would explain the way you skated.”

“There’s a lot you don’t understand yet,” Viktor says, relaxing into the easy, fake smile he’s spent so many years perfecting. “Being famous—as you and I are—you need to maintain a certain public imagine.”

“Fuck your public image,” Yuri says. “Go to the press conference or don’t. I don’t give a fuck.”

Of course Viktor will go to the press conference. He follows Yuri out and down the corridor towards where the press pack has gathered. Yakov is standing to one side talking to Katsuki’s coach, Cialdini. There doesn’t seem to be any bad blood between them, so Viktor knows that theoretically there should be no bad blood between him and Katsuki either. He’s long since learnt to be a graceful loser and not begrudge anyone who beats him. But this isn’t fair—this was meant to be his gold, his fifth in a row, a world record. It’s not fair, so he has to force himself not to blame Katsuki for it.

Chris waves him over. “Viktor! The press conference is about to start.”

For a moment, Viktor’s feet don’t move. Katsuki is standing with Chris, and up close, he’s beautiful. There’s no other word. His hair is still pushed back and his costume peeks out from beneath his tracksuit, but he’s wearing thick, unfashionable glasses and clutching a plush toy that had been thrown at him from the audience in his arms, his phone pressed up against it. He turns to look at Viktor and his mouth drops open.

Yeah, Viktor would be shocked if he’d beaten the world number one in his first Grand Prix Final appearance too.

“Better luck next time, hmm?” Chris says. “Now you know how I always feel.”

Katsuki’s face goes bright red. “Ah—um—I don’t want to seem like—could I get a photo with you, Viktor?”

He may be the most perfect man Viktor has ever seen, but not even that can excuse his lack of tact. It should be okay—he doesn’t _know_ , none of them know—but it’s not, and Viktor feels the unfamiliar sting of defeat even more keenly now.

“Sorry,” he says, “I can’t stay for the press conference.”

He turns and walks away, doesn’t wait to see how they react. Graceless in defeat, maybe—but rather he’s seen to be a sore loser than a bad skater.

 

* * *

  

 **@v-nikiforov** _due to personal reasons, i will not be competing at the european championships or worlds this season. thank you to all my fans for your support._

 

* * *

  

There is not much to Viktor beyond skating. He still goes to the rink sometimes—works with Agata’s junior class, pretends that he’s made any progress on the short programme he promised Yuri—but mostly he just stays at home. He has enough savings to live off his means without competing, at least for a while. It’s peaceful. He still gets recognised almost everywhere he goes, but no-one treats him any differently now that he’s no longer Russia’s favourite son.

He thinks about finding a new dog, but—no, it’s too soon.

The one constructive thing he’s done with his free time is learn to cook. He’s got himself down to takeaway only two nights of the week. It’s a Friday and he’s on his way home from the rink via the supermarket with bags of shopping, bursting at the seams, tucked under his arms. It was a busy morning with the junior skaters, but they really do admire him, and he likes working with them. Sometimes he thinks he could retire for good, and become a coach like Yakov and Agata.

He’s only a few blocks away from the metro station, lazily sketching out his future, when his phone starts ringing. It rings for a while and then stops. It starts ringing again. In between rings, it vibrates.

For the first time in months, something is _happening_.

Viktor doesn’t have his hands free to check it, so he’s forced to hold off until he gets home. He gets into the lift and slams the _close doors_ button with his knuckles five fast times in a row before the doors close and he begins the too-slow ascent up to his flat.

He doesn’t even bother to put his food in the fridge. His phone is ringing _again_ , and this time he manages to answer it.

It’s Georgi. “Viktor, where have you been? You were just at the rink, but—”

“I went to the shops,” Viktor says, interrupting Georgi’s histrionics. “What’s happened? Does everyone think I’m dead?”

“You haven’t seen it, have you?” Georgi says. “Oh my god, Viktor, do yourself a favour and check your Instagram notifications. Or Twitter. People are sending this video to you in any way they can.”

 _Video?_ Viktor puts his phone on speaker and flips through the literal hundreds of notifications that have come his way in the last half hour. Every one of them links to a video with a title in Japanese; the only characters Viktor recognises are the Roman letters “FS”—figure skating, or free skate—he’ll have to watch it to figure out which. Whatever it is, for everyone to be so excited about it, it must be good.

“I’m hanging up, Georgi,” he says.

“Call me again when you’ve watched it,” Georgi says, and gets in fast to end the call first.

Viktor opens the most recent of the links, sent to him by a fan with the handle @iloveviktor46, and presses play.

In the order that they become apparent to him, these are the things that Viktor notices about the video: it is a performance of _Stay Close To Me_ , the free skate he should’ve carried to the end of this season; it is Yuuri Katsuki, the most beautiful man alive, skating it; even though he doesn’t quite land the quad flip, Yuuri is skating it better than Viktor ever could’ve.

Yuuri has been the name to watch ever since his gold at the GPF, and then again at Japanese Nationals. He didn’t come first at Four Continents—that was the Canadian, John Something—nor at Worlds—Chris took that honour, finally, without Viktor in his way. No-one has heard from Yuuri since Worlds, but it’s widely acknowledged that he’ll do brilliantly next season, since everyone’s speculating that Viktor won’t be there to keep any of them in check.

And why _would_ Viktor be there? A brilliant, dangerous idea begins to form in his head.

He watches the video again. And again. And again, until he’s memorised it, until he closes his eyes and he sees Yuuri reaching out towards the camera, longing etched into every movement.

For the first time since Makkachin passed away, Viktor finds himself yearning to get back on the ice.

His phone rings. It’s Georgi again.

“Well? Did you watch it?”

“Yeah,” Viktor says. “It was—”

“Pretty incredible, huh?” Georgi says. “I mean, his technical execution is kind of sloppy, but you have to admit he’s got flair.”

 _He’s got more than just flair_ , Viktor thinks. He’s got _passion_ , and that’s what makes the video so enthralling. He skates like he’s responding to the music, not like he knows the moves and goes through all the right motions. It’s everything Viktor’s always felt he lacked. It’s—

—it’s love.

Viktor is a romantic at heart, and he absolutely believes in the power of love and the possibility of love at first sight, but he never thought it would happen to him. He’s not even sure how he’s supposed to quantify the feeling—how much does it take to call it love, how strong must it be?

“Viktor? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Viktor says, although his mind is miles away.

Soon, he might be there too.

 

* * *

 

Yakov is, predictably, furious. “You would throw your whole career away for this? On a whim?”

“I already threw my career away when I decided not to finish the season,” Viktor says. “Whether for better or for worse—it’s done.”

Shaking his head, Yakov says, “I know you loved that dog, Viktor, but it’s not worth giving up what you love for an extended mourning period. If you try to go back to the ice after over a year away, you will not be able to. I am telling you this now for your own good.”

“I know,” Viktor says.

“If you go to Japan now, your competitive career is over,” Yakov says.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve already booked my tickets,” Viktor says lightly.

“That makes no sense!” Yakov has had to deal with a lot over the years, but this is probably the worst thing Viktor’s put him through. “It’s not good, it’s downright irresponsible! Have you even spoken to Katsuki about this? Has he agreed to let you coach him?”

Viktor shrugs. “I hope so.”

“You h—you _idiot_!”

And then Yakov is off again. Viktor tunes him out, a skill he’s spent most of his life honing.

Maybe it is stupid, to jet off to Japan without a second thought. He hasn’t spoken to Yuuri about it—hasn’t spoken to him ever, really, except for that moment he turned down the opportunity to get a photo together. But Viktor has long-since stopped blaming Yuuri for his faux-pas. If it was him, and Yuuri had suffered a close defeat, or even a large one, he would definitely have offered some sort of consolation like that.

As for what Yuuri will say, the very fact that he left Detroit at the end of the season suggests… well, it suggests _something_. Viktor isn’t sure what, but maybe Yuuri is considering parting ways with his coach. Viktor has done his research—Yuuri went straight home to his family after Worlds, instead of back to his home rink in Detroit, and Cialdini is focusing all his energy into training Phichit Chulanont these days. Cialdini is even making regular trips to Thailand so that Phichit can establish it as his home rink. And where does that leave Yuuri?

“Yakov,” Viktor says, “please don’t worry. I’ve got this all worked out. I need you to trust me.”

“I’ve never trusted you a single day in your life,” Yakov says.

Viktor smiles. This sort of talk, he is well-acquainted with. “Really, Yakov. I promise, if it doesn’t work out I’ll come crawling back and throw myself at the mercy of your tutelage. Until then—”

“I can’t stop you from trying, can I,” Yakov says, resigned.

“No, you can’t.”

And Viktor has never meant anything more sincerely. His ticket to Fukuoka is burning a hole in his coat pocket. This is it—life after Makkachin, life after skating. _Stay Close To Me_ is more than a song and more than a programme, it’s a plea. Viktor won’t flatter himself and say that the plea was for him, but it _was_ a plea, without a doubt. Viktor should know. He’s the one who choreographed it, who poured his aimless heart into the step sequences.

It was a question, and Viktor is about to give Yuuri Katsuki an answer.

 

* * *

  

What Viktor knows about Yuuri Katsuki, he’s learnt from reading transcripts of interviews. Yuuri is notoriously secretive about his personal life, and although he has a large fanbase in Japan, there are a few dedicated bilingual fans who’ve translated his every interview and collated them all on a LiveJournal page for hopeless admirers like Viktor to peruse through at their leisure. He knows that Yuuri is from a small town called Hasetsu, that his parents run a hot spring resort and, from Wikipedia, he knows that tourism in Hasetsu has spent the last two decades steadily going under, leaving only one such resort still operational.

That’s where Viktor books a room.

He’s restless on the flight over, unable to sleep. By the time he arrives in Hasetsu it’s been upwards of seventeen hours since he last showered or had a proper meal, and the idea of a hot spring resort is perilously appealing. A warm bath, a hot meal, a bed to sleep in—what could be better?

The train pulls into Hasetsu station and Viktor stares out the window. He was ready to get here five hours ago. It’s snowing, so long after the season for it should’ve ended. If he was superstitious, maybe he’d take that as some kind of sign, an auspicious welcome. At the edges of his vision he can see the train lifting up snow on the tracks, billowing like a fine powder as they come to a stop.

Out in the fresh air, Viktor can think clearly again. Hasetsu station is a relic of another decade, a sculpture made out of concrete and vending machines, and in the snow it’s a washed-out grey. Viktor treads carefully through the snow until he makes it undercover and indoors. The walls of the interior are covered with reverent posters of Yuuri, thin paper beginning to dog-ear at the corners. The posters show him mid-performance, posed elegantly with one hand stretched to the sky, his gaze tracing its path, and a flurry of blossoms framing him.

At the far end of the station, there’s tiny gift shop staffed by an elderly man. Viktor doesn’t need to buy any souvenirs yet, but he could do with one of their town maps.

“Hi,” he says in English, “how much for a map?”

The man narrows his eyes at Viktor, uncomprehending.

Viktor’s lack of Japanese is going to be problematic, then. He ought to have expected less English in a small town. He takes one of the maps out of their plastic display stand and shows it to the shopkeeper. “How much?”

This time, the man picks up on Viktor’s meaning. He gives Viktor a dumbfounded look and gestures to a sticker at the bottom of the plastic stand: ¥500.

 _I’m a foreigner and an idiot_ , Viktor thinks. _What am I doing here?_

What he’s doing, for now, is sitting on a bench outside the station with his suitcase between his legs and trying to locate the characters he knows spell out _Yu-topia Katsuki_. He finds it eventually, walking distance from the station. That’s not so bad.

He spent the whole flight over wishing he hadn’t decided to travel so light, last-minute. There aren’t enough clothes in his (admittedly, oversized) suitcase for him to wear a different outfit every day of the month. Now, he’s grateful that he didn’t bring too much—he wouldn’t be able to carry all his things without paying for a special international delivery. Usually he wouldn’t blink twice about that sort of effort, but since he put his life on hiatus, he’s started caring less about his image, more about doing the things he’s never had time to do. So he pulls his suitcase through the snow and doesn’t care that it’s getting wet underneath, too focused on the map in his other hand.

The resort is unassuming, when he finds it. It looks lived-in, not like a prime holiday destination at all. But the sign out front is written in characters Viktor recognises and his feet are wet from the snow and all he wants to do is take off his shoes and lie down. He walks up to the screen doors and slides them apart.

“Is this—”

And then Viktor is falling, then he’s lying on his back in the snow, and he doesn’t register why straight away. He knows that something heavy hit him square in the chest. His eyes shut reflexively in case there’s more of whatever it is, or it’s some sort of vicious creature. Then, the vicious creature licks his face, and Viktor realises, _oh_ , it’s just a dog.

It is not just a dog.

He opens his eyes to see the second-most beautiful brown poodle he’s ever laid eyes on. His heart leaps—his rational brain knows that it’s obviously not Makkachin, because Makkachin is in a pet cemetery back in Saint Petersburg and Viktor is six hours in the future, but his _heart_ , his heart is thoroughly taken in, fooled by this fine facsimile.

“Hello, darling,” he says, scratching the poodle behind its ears. “What’s your name?”

“I’m sorry about him,” comes a voice from somewhere above Viktor. Whoever it is, she’s speaking in accented English, which alerts Viktor to the fact that he’d been speaking Russian to the poodle. He shifts the its head to one side to see who’s talking—an excessively pierced woman smoking a cigarette, dyed hair pushed back messily by a headband.

“It’s no problem,” he says. “I love dogs.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Are you the foreign guest? Mum said we needed an interpreter for someone arriving today.”

“Oh, your parents own this resort?”

Viktor sits up, drawing the poodle into his lap. This must be Yuuri’s sister.

“That’s right,” she says. She narrows her eyes. “You look familiar.”

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov,” he says.

There’s a second before the recognition sets in, and then her face splits into a wicked grin. “Viktor Nikiforov. No fucking way. It _is_ you.”

She holds out a hand, and Viktor takes it, struggling to his feet as the poodle bounds off him and settles next to his suitcase.

“I’m Mari,” she says, “Yuuri’s sister. You _are_ here for Yuuri, right?”

Viktor nods. “I booked my tickets almost as soon as I saw the video.”

“I’ve seen him skate before, but I had no idea that he was so—” Mari trails off. “Is he expecting you?”

“Sure,” Viktor says. “Why not.”

Mari clicks her tongue. “Well, he’s out. At the rink, probably.”

“That’s alright, I’ll wait for him,” Viktor says.

He’s exhausted, and keen to get out of his sweaty travel clothes. He wants to soak in the hot springs until he can’t feel anything anymore. Mari leads the way into the resort to get him checked in properly, and the poodle follows. Viktor kneels by it until Mari’s done.

“Sorry my parents aren’t around to welcome you,” she says. “Mum’s busy in the kitchen, and dad had to go pick up a delivery.”

“This place is very casual,” Viktor says. “I guess you don’t get many visitors in this season.”

Mari shrugs. “The whole tourism industry’s going under. It’s got nothing to do with seasons anymore. Okay! You’re all checked in. I’ll show you to your room.”

The poodle stays put, and Viktor feels almost lonely again as he follows Mari down corridors and upstairs and down more corridors to his room, only the sound of their footsteps and his suitcase wheels rolling against the wooden floor to accompany him. But, it is a very nice room. Viktor can’t fault that. Mari leaves him to get settled, and Viktor goes straight to the window, looking out towards snowy mountainsides lined with budding blossom trees.

He could get used to this.

 

* * *

  

Viktor wakes up to the sound of rain against a windowpane. It’s light rain, but he’s a light sleeper. The clouds don’t let through enough light to tell the time, and he has no internet on his phone yet, no way of telling how much time has passed since he fell asleep. He’s dazed and his mouth tastes like an afternoon nap. His stomach grumbles—food, then a dip in the hot springs.

He retraces the path in his memory back down to the entrance to the resort, which doubles as a bar and dining area. An older woman—but not very old—is cleaning away glasses, and nearly drops them all when she sees Viktor.

“Oh! Viktor!” she says, and then adds something in Japanese.

Thankfully, Mari is there to translate. “This is my mum, Hiroko,” she says. “She wants you to know how excited we all are to have you visiting.”

Hiroko says something else, and Mari translates, “She’s going to cook you a big dinner, so you’ll have some time to take a dip in the hot springs.”

“Thank you, Hiroko,” Viktor says. “I can think of nothing better.”

“Besides, Yuuri’s in the baths,” Mari adds, and Viktor is pretty sure this is not something Hiroko said. “I was right; he was at the rink. He’s just relaxing now. You should go say hi.”

Of course—that’s why he came all the way here. To see Yuuri. To congratulate him, properly, the way he should have done back in December. To _thank_ him, for breathing life into Viktor’s choreography in a way he’d never imagined.

“That way,” Mari prompts.

Viktor gathers all his wits about him and sets off in the direction Mari is pointing. There’s an intrinsic warmth to the hot springs that draws Viktor in, a network of showers and changing rooms, and signs that point towards the springs themselves. Custom dictates that Viktor has to wash himself before entering the baths themselves, and he does, thoroughly, but he’s impatient.

He’s provided with a standard-issue bathrobe and shown to the men’s baths. There’s no-one around but the staff, so Viktor is quietly hopeful that Yuuri will be alone.

He is.

The baths are outdoors and there are still a few drops of rain falling. Yuuri’s eyes are closed, his mouth is quirked upwards in a satisfied smile. He looks so peaceful that Viktor almost doesn’t want to disturb him. But he came here with a purpose, and he’s not going to let anything get in his way.

Viktor clears his throat. “Yuuri.”

Slowly, Yuuri’s eyes open—slowly, then all at once, and he jumps to his feet, water sluicing off his body and splashing all around him. He squints at Viktor—that’s right, Viktor remembers him wearing glasses—and then he gasps, sitting back down in a clatter of water and mist.

“Viktor—you—”

There’s so much Viktor wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask. Above all else, he wants to tell Yuuri what a difference he’s made to Viktor’s life, without even knowing it.

But the best laid plans often go awry. Viktor opens his mouth and what comes out is, “Yuuri, starting tomorrow, I’ll be your coach!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please direct all complaints about my unfortunate penchant for angst to the comments box down below


	2. Episode 2

This is meant to be the beginning of the rest of Viktor’s life, his big opportunity. At the moment, it’s feeling a bit anticlimactic.

He watches as Yuuri sinks deeper into the hot spring. For the last ten minutes, Yuuri has been gradually submerging himself further and further—now, the tip of his nose is grazing the surface of the water. Viktor wonders if maybe he came on too strong. Announcing he was going to be Yuuri’s coach, throwing off his robe and jumping into the spring mightn’t have been the best course of action, in hindsight.

“So you train at a rink near here?” he asks. The silence is so awkward it’s painful.

Yuuri nods, his nose bobbing below into the water and then up again as he resurfaces. “Ice Castle Hasetsu. It’s…”

“It’s?” Viktor prompts.

“Nice,” Yuuri finishes, his mouth twisting sideways. “It’s nice.”

Viktor sighs. Getting Yuuri to open up to him might be harder than cracking a walnut out of its shell with a plastic knife. “You’ll have to show me around town,” he says. “I’m not just here to coach you, after all.”

“You’re not?” Yuuri looks surprised at this. “What other business could you possibly have in Hasetsu?”

“Business? No, you misunderstand me.” Viktor laughs, almost self-conscious now. “I’m on holiday!”

Yuuri goes very quiet, drops infinitesimally lower into the spring. “You took the season off,” he says.

It’s been four months. Viktor thinks he can finally talk about it now. He nods, allowing Yuuri to continue.

“Why?”

“I—my—” It’s harder to say than he imagined. “Makkachin passed away. She was—”

He doesn’t go on, the words caught in his throat. Suddenly it makes perfect sense why Yuuri finds the depths of the warm water so inviting. Viktor is about to take a leaf out of his book and plunge as low as he can go without drowning, but then he hears a strangled, breathless sound, and when he looks up, Yuuri is wiping tears from his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri says, choking back more sobs. He’s a dog person, the whole family must be—that much Viktor had guessed from his enthusiastic welcome earlier. “Oh, god, Viktor, I can’t imagine—that you’re doing as well as you are—are you… ?”

“It’s getting easier,” Viktor acknowledges, because there’s no point talking around it. And since he and Yuuri are going to be working together now, he might as well tell Yuuri the full truth, excuses and all. “She died the night before the free skate at the Grand Prix Final. I wasn’t in the best place… that’s why I was so rude to you before the press conference. And I’m sorry about that, Yuuri.”

Yuuri stops crying, but the damage is done—his face is red and blotchy and his long eyelashes are all clumped together with residual tears. He gives Viktor a curious look. “I understand. You don’t have to apologise.”

Viktor nods. “Thank you.”

“How about we go back inside?” Yuuri suggests. “It’s nearly dinner time, and if you’re going to be staying here, you’ll have to try my mum’s katsudon eventually.”

“I can’t wait,” Viktor says.

To distract himself from how much he wants to reach out and hold Yuuri’s hands, tell him it’s okay, honestly, Viktor gets to his feet straight away, only pausing afterwards to feel a bit ridiculous for giving Yuuri another eyeful. But it’s not like Viktor doesn’t have a particularly fine figure. He hopes Yuuri won’t mind.

Either way, Yuuri joins him shortly after, wrapping a towel around his waist. He pauses by the water’s edge, directing that searching gaze at Viktor again.

“If you—if you need anything, just ask, okay?” Yuuri says, and he runs a hand down Viktor’s arm, coming to rest at his wrist. “I want to help however I can.”

Viktor lets himself relax into the contact. It’s been so long since someone else has _touched_ him that he hadn’t so much as noticed it until this moment. And Yuuri lets his fingers linger at Viktor’s wrist a beat too long, enough to suggest something more than his words are saying.

He jerks away a second later like someone who’s just realised they were running the tap too hot, but Viktor feels the gentle pressure long after Yuuri’s moved away and started walking back into the bathhouse.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri falls asleep after dinner. It doesn’t look like he means to, but he pushes through his evident tiredness with yawns and fluttering eyelids until he gives into it, following a pattern of exhaustion that is like an old friend to Viktor, from his own habit of overworking himself. He wonders how long Yuuri spent at the rink that afternoon.

Not that Viktor is strictly complaining—Yuuri’s head is resting on his thigh, and he doesn’t seem to mind or even notice that Viktor is twirling a lock of his hair between his fingers.

“You two are pretty close already, huh,” Mari says, clearing away their dinner plates.

Viktor would help, but he doesn’t want to wake Yuuri.

“I guess so,” he says.

Mari looks like she’s fighting against a comment, her mouth twitching at the corners. Eventually, she says, “Yuuri might not act like it, but it’s a big deal for him to have you here. He’s been a fan of you since he was ten.”

Viktor does the maths quickly at the back of his mind, and it adds up to more than half of Yuuri’s life, and almost half of his own. That is not insignificant.

“Yuuri learnt to figure skate watching videos of you,” Mari continues. “He was copying your routines long before that video made it to YouTube. We never really understood it, but our parents have done everything they could to support him. And you’ve already met the other Viktor.”

“Huh? The other—”

“We call him Vicchan for short,” Mari says.

The realisation dawns slowly. Viktor could laugh, and maybe he would if he wasn’t so touched. “Oh, your poodle?”

Mari shrugs. “Yuuri’s always wanted to be like you.”

“I think I get it now,” Viktor says.

He looks down at Yuuri, shifting slightly in his sleep. Knowing that Yuuri wants him to be here, in his own way, sets Viktor’s heart a little more at ease. He’s always known Yuuri looked up to him as a skater—noticed it at a glance in the way he chose his outfits, his music, his jump composition—but hearing the full extent of it from Mari goes some way to settling Viktor’s confused thoughts about the matter. It’s not like he’d paid much attention before the _Stay Close To Me_ video, something he now regrets more than he could possibly articulate.

Mari leaves for the kitchen, leaving Viktor and Yuuri alone, together. There’s something so dizzyingly intimate about it that Viktor finds his face stuck in what must be a singularly dopey grin, looking down at Yuuri, tracing his hairline with fingers still dry from a long flight.

After some time—not long enough—Yuuri stirs. “Ah,” he says. “I fell asleep.”

“You did.” Viktor retreats, bringing his hand back to rest on the table like it was never anywhere else. “Have you been working too hard, Yuuri? You know it’s the off-season, don’t you?”

Yuuri scrambles upright, waving his arms about frantically. “No, no, I haven’t been training that much at all, really!”

“I can tell you’re lying,” Viktor says, smirking, neglecting to mention that he can only tell because he said the exact same thing to Yakov, once, before he learnt better than to lie to his coach.

“It’s just that—” Yuuri stops, his shoulders slumping. “I haven’t made it public, or anything. How did you know I don’t have a coach anymore?”

 _That_ surprises Viktor. “I didn’t,” he admits.

Yuuri makes a noise that’s half laugh, half sigh. “I graduated from college a few months ago. I stayed in Detroit until the end of the competitive season, and after that… well, Celestino is spending most of his time in Thailand now, training Phichit—ah, my old rinkmate, Phichit Chulanont.”

“I knew about that,” Viktor says. “Surely you could have gone with them?”

“I didn’t want to,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “It’s been five years. I wanted to come home. If that meant finding another coach, or quitting, then…”

Viktor frowns to himself. For someone as promising as Yuuri to be thinking of quitting, there must have been a huge shift in his relationship with his coach, or a plummet in his confidence. Viktor has a sinking feeling that it might be the latter. The Yuuri who won the Grand Prix Final must have been a very different creature to the Yuuri who’s sitting with his legs crossed beneath him, fiddling with the hemline of his shirt and not meeting Viktor’s eyes.

“It’s lucky I came when I did, then,” Viktor says. “Any later and we mightn’t have had enough time to put together programmes for next season.”

“You’re going to choreograph for me?” Yuuri asks. “I mean—”

“Yes, I think so,” Viktor says, “unless you’ve got any ideas of your own.”

Before his sudden retirement, he’d commissioned some music for his next season, two arrangements of the same piece. _Eros_ and _Agape_. Both came in short and long form, so he could decide which he’d use for his short programme and which for his free skate at a later date. He could give both of them to Yuuri, but Yuuri lacks the confidence necessary for _Eros_. _Agape_ , on the other hand…

“I have at least one idea,” Viktor says, winking.

Yuuri goes beet red. “To skate a programme you’ve choreographed would be like a dream come true.”

Hearing how much of a fan Yuuri is from Mari was one thing; seeing the evidence laid out before him his quite another, and Viktor finds his face heating up too.

“Well, before that, I want to have my holiday,” Viktor says. “You can show me around town tomorrow, and maybe if we have time in the afternoon we can go to the rink.”

“You don’t want to start training immediately?”

Viktor puts a finger to his lips. “I don’t think so. _You_ need a break.”

He doesn’t meant to come off pushy, or teasing, or anything he doesn’t really mean, but Yuuri seems to take it any one of those ways, lurching upright and staggering backwards. After a moment, he stabilises.

“Okay. But only tomorrow.”

“Only tomorrow,” Viktor promises.

This, he knows with perfect clarity, is the beginning of something beautiful.

 

* * *

 

The snow melts on Hasetsu with the pink sunrise the next morning, low mist through the pink blossoms on the trees that line the path from the resort up the mountainside to Hasetsu Castle.

“It’s not really a castle,” Yuuri explains. “It’s a ninja house, which means that the castle is just a facade.”

Viktor almost runs ahead, but the snow and black ice clinging to the steps give him second thoughts, and he keeps his pace. But oh, he wants to run. He wants to fling his arms out wide and take in every detail of this beautiful place. When he makes it to the top of the mountainside, the last rest stop before the castle, closed to tourists, Viktor is glad he didn’t run. He’s winded. Yuuri seems fine—probably because he’s been training non-stop since he got home—but Viktor hasn’t had the benefit of a regular exercise regime for _months_. He really is best off as a coach right now.

Yuuri clears some snow and blossoms off a bench and sits down, gesturing for Viktor to join him. Viktor isn’t particularly keen on getting the back of his trousers wet, but he joins Yuuri anyway, because these feelings may be new to him but he’s pretty certain that they all add up to mean he wants to spend the rest of his life by Yuuri’s side.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” Yuuri says wistfully. He picks a stray petal between his fingers and presses it into his palm. “It’s nearly five years since I left for Detroit. I was a _child_ last time I was here.”

“You must have missed it a lot,” Viktor says.

Yuuri shrugs. “I guess. I don’t think I missed it until now. Is that weird?”

“I don’t think so.” Viktor knocks his shoulder against Yuuri’s. “I didn’t realise how much I missed Saint Petersburg until I retired.”

“So you’re really retired?”

“I’m your coach,” Viktor says, and he aims for cheerful, but doesn’t quite hit the mark. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer himself.

“I guess so,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t sound convinced.

Well, Viktor doesn’t need to convince him immediately. He just needs to make sure they’re on the same page first, to see what Yuuri needs from a coach, and deliver it to him in pristine condition and wrapped with a silk bow.

He’s leaning more and more towards _Agape_ as Yuuri’s short programme. It’s too much for a free skate; the song repeats its motifs and dwells on the same themes in a manner that doesn’t meet Viktor’s exacting standards of surprise. But as a short programme, with Yuuri dressed in something sheer and ethereal—now that’s a beautiful thought. Almost as beautiful as Yuuri sitting here now, fidgeting with snow-damp petals and windblown like the trees on these ancient mountainsides.

“Let’s take a selfie,” Viktor says. _I want to remember you like this forever_ , he doesn’t say.

“Oh, I, uh—I don’t photograph very well,” Yuuri says.

“That may be the case,” Viktor says, side-eyeing him, “but you asked me for a photo after the Grand Prix Final, and I let you down. So let’s make up for that right now!”

Yuuri blushes very prettily. “When you put it that way…”

Viktor’s phone is out of his pocket a second later, primed to get both of them in the shot and Hasetsu Castle in the background. He uploads it to Instagram—news is bound to get out one way or another, and Viktor would rather that he’s the one to break it.

“Do you have an account, so I can tag you?”

“Not one that I ever use,” Yuuri says.

Viktor glares at him until he gives in.

“Okay, okay. It’s ykatsuki. One word.”

Caption typed, picture posted, Viktor relieves an anxiety he didn’t know he was harbouring. The secret’s out now. He’s told the world that he’s retired, and it feels _great_.

The way his heart skips a beat when he looks at Yuuri in the photo, Yuuri still beside him—a leap that he shouldn’t make from coach-and-student to friends to something else, that he dearly wants to make—is something he’ll think about another time.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _first day of coaching @ykatsuki … not much coaching yet but hasetsu castle is beautiful! <333_

 

* * *

 

On Viktor’s second full day in Hasetsu, Yuuri takes him to see his home rink. As far as Viktor is concerned, Ice Castle Hasetsu is almost as wonderful as the ninja house itself. This is mainly because of the way Yuuri relaxes the moment they arrive, the way he skates on the ice with such _familiarity_ , but it is a nice rink. Definitely above average.

The family who own and operate the rink are lovely, too. Viktor is mobbed by six-year-old triplets named after jumps the moment he walks through the doors, brandishing cameras, pens, and paper, and asking him in broken English if they can upload the photos and autographs to their fansite. It is perhaps the most adorable and most perplexing fan encounter Viktor has ever endured. Of course, he says they may, and within minutes the notifications appear on his Instagram.

Their mother, Yuuko, speaks English about as well as Viktor does—which is to say, nowhere near as well as Yuuri, but well enough to hold fluent conversation.

“I’m really sorry about the triplets,” she says. “They’re such fangirls. It’s my own fault for raising them this way.”

Viktor looks across to where they’re babbling between themselves, fighting over who gets to film Yuuri today, their hapless father trying to keep them in line. Out on the ice, Yuuri has his glasses off and skates oblivious to the hubbub around him, running through the kinds of drills Viktor would never make him do, and which he suspects Celestino wouldn’t have either. No, this self-destructive desire to push himself to his limits—this is all Yuuri.

“They posted that video, you know,” Yuuko adds.

“I must thank them,” Viktor says. “That video—”

— _saved me_ , he thinks, _changed my life_ —

“—was really good,” he finishes pathetically.

Yuuko doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, they’re good with the camera, aren’t they? They must get that from Takeshi.”

Viktor turns Yuuri’s glasses around in his fingers, careful not to smudge the lenses. “Has Yuuri always pushed himself to work this hard?” he asks.

“Ah,” Yuuko says, as if this is a question she has been asked before. “I’m two years older than Yuuri, Takeshi is one year older. He’s never really had friends his age. He would come to the rink, though—that’s where I met him—and my parents were always happy to let him skate, even after hours.”

“So he’s self-taught,” Viktor says. Mari had mentioned it—that Yuuri taught himself from videos of Viktor’s routines. But hearing Yuuko confirm it confirms something else Viktor had been wondering. “He never had a coach before he went to Detroit, did he?”

“Yes and no,” Yuuko says. “Officially, Yuuri’s ballet teacher was his coach, and when his parents could afford it they sent him all over the country for masterclasses, brief training stints over the holidays… but Yuuri always wanted to come back to Hasetsu. He never wanted to leave home for long while he was busy with school. And then, when he was seventeen he got bronze at Japanese Nationals, and he started getting offers from coaches all over the country, and one from America.”

If anything, Viktor understands Yuuri even less now. Staying close to home for so long, and then all of a sudden uprooting himself to America—how must he have justified that to himself?

“His dedication really shows,” is all Viktor says.

Yuuko looks out across the rink and smiles fondly. “Yeah. We’re all so proud of him.”

Yuuri is so lucky to have a town populated entirely by his family, his friends, and his admirers. Viktor wonders if he knows it.

“Are you going to join him?” Yuuko asks, looking back at Viktor. “My girls and I would love to see you skate.”

“Of course!” Viktor gives her his for-the-cameras grin, and immediately feels bad for it, relaxing into a more natural smile. “I’ll get my skates on now. But usually, when I’m coaching, we’ll need the rink to ourselves.”

Yuuko nods, grabbing her phone out of her pocket and frantically pressing buttons. “I can adjust the rink’s booking schedule to fit you in—not that many people come here these days, but—well, it means a lot to all of us, to have you here and coaching Yuuri.”

It means a lot to Viktor too.

He leaves Yuuri’s glasses next to his sport bag and joins him out on the ice. For now, they don’t do any proper training, skating around each other in loops and getting used to the feeling of being in the same space. Yuuri tries to do a triple salchow, at which point Viktor bans him from jumps entirely—“Until you stop working so hard!”—and Yuuri does seem reluctant to comply, but he must understand that Viktor is still figuring out what kind of coach Yuuri needs, and this is the first step.

When they’re done, Viktor is just about ready to make the hot springs his permanent home, for the steam to ease the tension in his muscles from the shock of so much exertion after so long away from it.

“You’re really tired,” Yuuri says, disbelieving.

“Only because I’m out of practice,” Viktor says. He probably comes off defensive.

Yuuri nearly trips over himself in his haste to apologise. “I didn’t mean—I guess I didn’t expect—”

“I’m not a living legend anymore, Yuuri, and I don’t want you to think of me as one,” Viktor says. “I’m your coach.”

“You’re a bit more than that,” Yuuri says. He stops, looking over Viktor’s shoulder. “Because I don’t think all those reporters outside are here for _me_.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor formally meets Yuuri’s former ballet teacher and de facto coach two nights later. It isn’t a planned meeting—he’s trying to escape the reporters by taking the backstreets, wandering into parts of town he can’t identify on his map.

Yuuri was right that the reporters were there for Viktor. Yuuri trains at the same place every day, after all, and this has never happened to him before.

The weird part is that Viktor has never had an aversion to reporters like the horror he feels now at the very thought of meeting with them. This is different because he’s finally doing something for _himself_ , and he doesn’t want the media intruding on it any more than they need to. He gave a few interviews, smiled for some cameras, and he’ll keep giving interviews and smiling for cameras.

It should be so easy. It’s always been easy, to slip into a persona and give the public all his time, and he’s always enjoyed it, too. But this isn’t fun. It’s draining. It’s like he’s a different person now, and not in the way he’s always tried to be exactly who his fans want him to be. He’s just old, sad, and passingly lonely when he closes his eyes to sleep at night.

So instead of sleeping or talking to reporters, he wanders around Hasetsu’s unlit streets until he happens on a bar, empty except for its sole employee, a woman he’s seen once or twice around the resort.

She recognises him, asking in English, “Did Yuuri tell you where to find me?”

“No,” he says, surprised. “I came here to—can I have a drinks menu?”

The bartender introduces herself as Minako Okukawa, and Viktor picks her name right away. Growing up with Yakov, and by extent with his ex-wife Lilia Baranovskaya, Viktor knows more than he will ever need to about ballet and the world’s most famous dancers. Minako Okukawa is a revered name in the Baranovskaya household, even though Minako is at least fifteen years her junior.

So Yuuri becomes an even bigger mystery—an autodidactic athlete with a world-class ballerina as his first coach, evidently shy and lacking in confidence, but still capable enough to beat Viktor and win a Grand Prix title.

“Do you still teach much?” Viktor asks, because he’s still puzzling her out too, a world-class ballerina behind the counter at a hole-in-the-wall bar.

“No-one does much in Hasetsu these days,” she says, shrugging. “It’s a ghost town. I’ve only been getting business lately because of all those reporters you brought in. You’re lucky they aren’t here tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” Viktor says, jaw clenched.

“Not a fan of all the attention?” Minako asks. “Somehow, that surprises me.”

That cheers Viktor up a bit. “I live to surprise,” he says.

“I can tell,” Minako says. “Of all the things people expect a living legend to do when he retires, uprooting to Japan to coach someone—what, only four years younger? That’s a surprise and a half.”

“Yuuri shows a lot of promise,” Viktor says, rolling out a more personal variant of the speech he’s been giving to journalists on the ground in Hasetsu, over the phone from Russia, via email from all over the world. “Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I want to be the one to bring out that potential.”

Minako gives him a curious look. “I hope you won’t hate me for saying this, but Yuuri’s already won his first international gold medal. We know he can do it. _He_ knows he can do it. And the way I’ve heard it told, you came here, decided to coach him, without asking him first. What made you think he’d need you to bring out the potential he’s already shown?”

In the pause before he manages to wrap his head around Minako’s words, Viktor feels his chest constrict. She’s right, of course. Yuuri doesn’t _need_ him. But what about what he _wants_? What Viktor wants? It’s a question he should’ve asked himself before he left. He wants to be angry at Minako, but she’s _right_.

“We’ve talked about it, and agreed that—”

“I don’t care how much you’ve talked about it,” Minako says. “I really don’t, Viktor. You might be world-famous, but if you’ve just come here to _surprise_ people, if you’re toying with Yuuri’s heart, I don’t care who you are, I’ll—”

Whatever threat she’s trying to make, she can’t carry it through. Her words peter out, and she clears her throat, fixing Viktor with a glare that’s more menacing than Yakov on a bad day.

“Yuuri is so loved,” Viktor says, choosing his words very carefully. “Since I’ve arrived here, that’s the thing I’ve noticed most. He has a lot of people supporting him, and when you see him, when you get to know him, can you blame them? I’m one of those people now, whether I planned to be or not. I’m not here for a casual holiday. I’m here to commit to something, and to follow it through.”

A very long silence stretches out between them. Minako turns her scrutinising glare on Viktor, and Viktor tries his best to be inscrutable.

“Well,” she says at last, “since you’re here, what do you want to drink?”

Viktor has definitely overrun his emotional quota for the day. As the night wears on, he could be back at the resort, old, sad, passingly lonely as he tries to get to sleep. Or he could be here, getting drunk in distinguished company—when he frames it like that, the choice is obvious.

 

* * *

 

It’s ten in the morning when Viktor’s alarm goes off, and the first thing he thinks is, what a delight it is to wake up in such a beautiful place without a care in the world, so why is his alarm going off? Then, he remembers—he set it as a safeguard somewhere between leaving the bar and stumbling into bed, because drunk Viktor had known something like this might happen.

And he’s ruined the training regime he’d so carefully established—Yuuri is not a morning person, and it had taken a not insignificant amount of cajoling to get him to acquiesce to rising with the sun.

There’s nothing else for it. Viktor is going to have to run.

He puts on the tracksuit he’s saved to be the sole province of lazy days, the kind of thing he wouldn’t be seen dead wearing on the trip from the resort to the rink. Vicchan is waiting at the entrance to the resort—probably not waiting for anyone in particular, but Viktor attaches the leash by the door to his collar anyway and takes him for a jog. The exercise is pretty much the worst thing he’s done in weeks. He’s so out of shape it’s embarrassing, but at least Vicchan seems to be enjoying himself.

Once again, the press are crowding Ice Castle Hasetsu in full force. They’re yelling Yuuri’s name, but that’s about all Viktor understands. His Japanese is still elementary. As the reporters part to let him through, he wonders idly if maybe there’s a limit to how many languages one person can fit in their brain.

He’s met at the door by Yuuko. “Hi, Viktor,” she says, a little tentative. “You, um, might want to take a moment to prepare yourself before you go into the rink.”

“How come?” he asks, suddenly worried. “Is Yuuri okay?”

Yuuko waves her hands to apologise, like Yuuri does. “No, no, nothing like that! It’s just… maybe you’d better see for yourself. I’ll take care of Vicchan.”

So Viktor hands her the leash, forges on ahead and into the rink and— _oh_.

It’s like seeing double. There’s Yuuri Katsuki looking like he’s been slapped, and there’s Yuri Plisetsky, a tacky leopard-print suitcase by his side. Viktor doesn’t say anything for a very long moment, looking between the two of them and trying to work out what, exactly, Yuri Plisetsky is doing here. The only thing that makes sense is why the journalists outside were saying one name over and over again.

“Before you ask—” Yuuri Katsuki begins.

“I’m here to get what’s rightfully _mine_ ,” Plisetsky says, pointing an accusing finger at Viktor. “You were going to choreograph a short programme for my senior debut, and instead you’re in Japan coaching some nobody?”

“Yuuri won the Grand Prix last year,” Viktor says, amused, “and you’re fifteen. How did you even get a plane ticket by yourself?”

“That’s all you’ve got to say to me?” Plisetsky demands. “My grandpa booked it for me, not that that’s any of your business.”

Viktor smiles indulgently. Yuri is fifteen. Viktor did a lot of stupid things at fifteen too—but he would’ve drawn the line at that tiger shirt, of that he’s certain.

“You can choreograph a programme for Yuri and still coach me,” Yuuri says. “Right, Viktor?”

To buy himself time, Viktor nods in agreement. Now that he thinks about it—really _thinks_ —giving _Agape_ to Yuuri is so typical. It’s exactly what people expect of a skater who’s made a name for himself giving beautiful, lyrical, _tame_ performances.

Plus, it would be irresponsible of Viktor to make a kid skate to _Eros_.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ve got an idea.”

“A competition,” Plisetsky says.

It wasn’t what Viktor was thinking, but it’s the kind of thing that always piques his interest. “Alright! A competition! But you don’t even know what you’ll be skating yet.”

They go very quiet at that. Good. Viktor’s got their attention. He gets his phone out of his pocket and flicks open the music app.

“I commissioned some pieces for my routines next season, but since I won’t be skating to them, I was thinking of giving one to Yuuri. Er, Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri had looked nervous at the idea of a competition—now, he gives Viktor a hesitant smile. It’s the only thing Viktor wants to see ever again.

“Now that things have… changed,” he goes on, “I’ve decided—this very moment—to give one of them to each of you! It’s two arrangements of the same piece, produced around the theme of _love_.”

“Gross,” Plisetsky says.

Yuuri gives him a look and says, under his breath, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

If Plisetsky hears, he doesn’t respond.

“This is the first arrangement,” Viktor says, pressing play. “ _On Love: Agape_. It’s about deep, unconditional love, platonic or otherwise.”

He watches their reactions closely as the music plays. Yuri Plisetsky looks bored out of his mind, as any fifteen year old would when “unconditional love” is mentioned, whereas Yuuri Katsuki seems to be intrigued by it. He would be—this is the kind of music he usually skates to. Safe.

Viktor doesn’t let the track run to the end. “Okay, now this is _On Love: Eros_. That one, more people know what it means. Sexual love, physical desire, carnal attraction—”

He hits play. The moment the music starts, Plisetsky perks up. He’s always skated to fast, passionate music, so this is familiar territory for him. All the more reason to take him outside his comfort zone. Katsuki, on the other hand… his expression is unreadable. Viktor takes it for some sort of alienation, but he’s not certain.

And pause, again.

“For your competition, one of you will skate a short programme to _Agape_ , the other to _Eros_ ,” Viktor says. Drawing it out, because he’s never been able to resist drama, he continues, “The way I’m going to assign it is—”

“I want _Eros_ ,” Yuuri interrupts.

Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. Viktor’s Yuuri. Wants to skate to _Eros_. He _wants_ to. Viktor’s heart stops. He replays the words in his mind to make sure he’s heard correctly.

Yuuri clears his throat. “Um, is that okay? For me to skate to _Eros_ , I mean?”

“It’s exactly what I was about to say,” Viktor says. He clasps his hands together against his chest. “Oh, Yuuri, I’m so pleased! I’m beyond happy!”

“ _Wait_ ,” Plisetsky says, “I have to skate to that stupid _Agape_ song?”

“Yes, yes,” Viktor says, “we’ll talk about _Agape_ later. Go and get your skates on. I need to have some words with Yuuri about _Eros_.”

Plisetsky might be stalking off somewhere; Viktor doesn’t really care. His eyes are fixed on Yuuri, biting his lower lip in what Viktor recognises as an attempt to hold back a smile. He doesn’t look like he regrets his decision. That’s the most important part.

“Were you really going to give me _Eros_?” Yuuri asks, when his namesake is well out of earshot.

“Really,” Viktor assures him.

Now, Yuuri lets his expression run free, pure openness and relief. “I thought _Agape_ would be better for me, at first, but—” He pauses, takes a shallow breath. “I want to show you how _physical_ I can be.”

“I can’t wait,” Viktor says, although it doesn’t get across just how fast his heart is beating at the thought of seeing Yuuri skate the routine he has in mind.

He’s not telling the full truth—impatient as he knows he can be, this is one thing Viktor is willing to wait for, however long it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might notice that this fic is part of a series now. i'm going to be writing side stories ("side side effects") to give different POVs on a handful of chapters, which will kick off next week with a double update: chapter 3, and a side story from yuri plisetsky's POV :)


	3. Episode 3

Yuri Plisetsky ends up staying at Yu-topia, and Viktor feels a bit like his thunder has been stolen. He’s got nothing personal against Yuri—and, after all, Viktor still has the best guest room in the house, which he knows because Yuuri Katsuki told him so. But the timing of Plisetsky’s arrival, so soon after Viktor had got here, combined with that very fifteen-year-old way he has of making everything about himself, has Viktor playing second fiddle.

It puts Yuuri Katsuki on edge. Just when he was starting to open up to Viktor, too. The three of them are sitting around a dining table, recovering from Hiroko’s katsudon—just as good as Yuuri said it would be—and Yuri Plisetsky is all stretched out, Yuuri Katsuki all withdrawn, hands balled into fists on his knees.

The one reprieve Viktor has is that Mari has given Plisetsky the nickname _Yurio_ , so the two of them can tell who’s being addressed. Viktor is rather fond of it.

“Yurio,” he says, “maybe you should go to bed, hmm? You must be tired from your long journey here.”

“I’m not tired,” Yuri says stubbornly, “and that’s not my name.”

“You arrived so early,” Yuuri Katsuki muses. “Did you come on an early train?”

Plisetsky scowls at him, but even his persistently bad attitude isn’t enough to resist Yuuri’s. “Yeah. I stayed in Fukuoka overnight.”

“That’s dedication,” Yuuri says.

“So why don’t you go and get some rest?” Viktor suggests again. He leans forward, propping his chin up in his hands. “Leave the adults to talk amongst themselves.”

“ _No_!” Plisetsky snaps, slamming a palm down onto the table. Their plates and glasses skitter across a few millimetres each. Plisetsky seems to realise what he’s done a moment later, and retracts his hand quickly. He adds, “If you want to be alone with each other that badly then I’ll go.”

Is Viktor really being that obvious about it? “It’s not that—”

“We need to—” Yuuri interrupts. “I mean—we need to discuss some details of our arrangement. The, uh—coaching.”

“Yes,” Viktor says, catching on, “yes, exactly. Run along now, Yurio!”

Plisetsky gets to his feet so fast he almost upends the entire table. “That is _not_ my name.”

Teasing is a very powerful weapon against teenagers. Shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets, Plisetsky stalks out of the dining area and once he’s out of sight, Viktor leans across the table, giving Yuuri his best suggestive smile.

“So,” he says, “talk _details_ to me.”

“I was just—I thought—”

Yuuri has a very sporadic brand of confidence. One minute it’s there, the next, he’s babbling nonsense and incapable of stringing together a sentence.

“I want to talk about our arrangement,” Yuuri concludes.

“Okay, let’s talk about that,” Viktor says. “I suppose it would be unfair of me to charge you coaching fees at this stage, since I did sort of show up out of the blue.”

“That’s kind of you,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t sound too positive about it.

Viktor relaxes, lying down across the table. “Isn’t it? I’m a very gracious coach.”

Yuuri smiles, closing his eyes. “I won’t let you down,” he says.

He says it so quietly that Viktor barely believes he’s spoken at all, and later, when he’s lying half-awake but too far away from half-asleep, he remembers it and wonders if Yuuri really said it at all. If he didn’t—Viktor considers it a promise made anyway.

 

* * *

 

Viktor is not the only one whose thunder has been stolen. He first notices this after he’s skated through _Agape_ and _Eros_ —no jumps, just to demonstrate the choreography—and Yuuri is looking terrified as Plisetsky boasts, “I got all of that. Can we start already?”

“Don’t be impatient,” Viktor says. “I’ll go over it again. Your memory probably isn’t as good as you think it is.”

Plisetsky folds his arms. “Fine. Whatever.”

He flits between too eager and affectedly apathetic. Turning this into a competition had been his idea, and he’s driven on that front, but it means he misses the point. _Agape_ is about unconditional love, not irrational hatred. Plisetsky spends his entire time on the ice spitting invective about things he thinks the choreography could do better, where he thinks the jumps should go, how many spins he should aim for in that one bit. Mostly, they’re not suggestions Viktor would’ve made, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad. He worries that Yuri is taking the programme too far from its original intentions, though, so he says no to most of them.

As for the competition itself—Yuuko’s daughters have volunteered to organise it, which Viktor takes to mean they make suggestions and their parents do all the actual legwork, arranging the promotion, sound system, and lighting. Still, they’re the most determined six-year-olds that Viktor has ever met, so he’s more than happy to treat them as his bosses for the week, which goes as far as allowing them to hang around rinkside and record promotional footage for their Instagram. The concept of literal children using Instagram makes Viktor feel very, very old, but he brushes it off, gets on with his part of the whole affair.

They’re filming while he works with Yuri Plisetsky, and Yuuri Katsuki is warming up elsewhere. Viktor doesn’t like working with one of them and not the other, but it’s the nature of what they’re doing. Maybe he just doesn’t like the nature of what they’re doing. Maybe he’s still bitter about Yuri Plisetsky showing up out of the blue and effectively cutting his time with Yuuri Katsuki in half.

Yuuri is waiting with the triplets for the two of them to finish, wringing his hands in front of him.

“Viktor, I’ve been thinking—”

“Sounds dangerous,” Viktor says. “What about?”

“We’re skating these short programmes for a competition,” Yuuri says. “If it’s a competition, there should be a prize.”

“A trophy!” one of the triplets pipes up.

“No, idiot,” another one says. “A _medal_.”

“Let’s ask mum!” the third triplet says, and she dashes off, the other two hot on her heels.

Yuuri seems more relaxed once they’re gone. “Actually, I was thinking of a different sort of prize.”

“Money,” Plisetsky says, before Yuuri can continue.

Viktor gives him a stern look. He shuts up.

“My idea was a more personal prize,” Yuuri says. He speaks like each word takes as much effort as trying to jump a quad. “That the winner gets to choose their prize. If you’re okay with that, Viktor… ?”

“You mean something like, I’ll do whatever you want for you if you win?”

Viktor thinks that one through. It could be fun to add an ultimatum to this competition—maybe it would change the tenor of it, too, and Viktor wouldn’t feel so bad about dividing all his time so prosaically.

“Sort of like that,” Yuuri says. “Actually, I thought we could tell you what we want now, so we have something to work hard for.”

Plisetsky is unimpressed. “Can I still ask for money?”

“Considering it would be coming out of my wallet, I have to say no,” Viktor says. “Yuuri—since it was your idea, why don’t you go first? Name your prize.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, and he opens his mouth to say more but he doesn’t get very far, snapping it closed again. He repeats this twice over before finally managing to speak. “Viktor, if I win, will you stay on as my coach? Not only for the coming summer, but for next year’s season too, all the way from the Grand Prix to Worlds.”

That’s just under a year. It’s impossible to say _yes_ or _no_ to a request like that, not even a week into their relationship with a year yet to pass. For all his talk, Viktor has never been good at committing himself to one thing—the only thing he’s done for so long is skating, and now that he doesn’t have that anymore… well, how bad would it be to really commit to giving it up entirely? To move on, for good, to the next phase of his life?

His thoughts are interrupted by Plisetsky saying, “Okay, my turn.”

“Wait just a minute,” Viktor says. “I need to accept Yuuri’s ultimatum first.”

“ _Do_ you accept it?” Plisetsky asks, scrunching up his entire face into a frown.

 _Does_ he accept it?

“Yes,” Viktor says.

What’s one week to one year? What’s one year to a lifetime spent ignoring his contentment in favour of his art? And when was he last this happy, since—since before Makkachin—

“Yes, I accept it.”

“Then here’s my ultimatum,” Plisetsky says. “If I win, you give up on Katsuki and come back to Russia to be _my_ coach.”

Yuuri gasps, but his body barely moves, giving no other indication of what he thinks of this suggestion. Viktor isn’t sure what to think of it either. Independently, they both seem to have decided that he’s retired from skating for good. That, too, is something he should examine—the ease with which he makes such snap decisions—but not now, not today, when so much of his future is balancing on a knife-edge. One foot wrong, and everything he’s trying to build could come crashing down on top of him, cratering the foundations beyond repair.

“I accept,” he says.

It’s not easy. But it’s fair. Viktor now is a different person to Viktor four months ago, and Viktor four months in the future—around the time the next season is due to start—he might be a different person yet again. All he can do is take change as it comes and go with it, whatever happens.

 

* * *

 

There is no easy way to break it to himself. Viktor is coming to a very troubling realisation, the culmination of everything that has worried him since he began coaching Yuuri. The thing is, Viktor is not just impressed by the way Yuuri skates like he’s the one making the music, not just attracted to his gentle manner—the simple fact of the matter is that Yuuri is undeniably and incredibly _sexy_ , and he has _no clue about it_.

Viktor tries bringing it up casually. “Your timing still needs some work, but you definitely have the mood sorted.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “Thank you… ?”

“It’s a compliment,” Viktor says.

Yuuri winces. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

If Viktor hadn’t already seen the depths of Yuuri’s lack of confidence, he’d think he was joking. Yuuri’s natural allure is off the charts. This is another realisation Viktor has: Yuuri could be lounging around the resort wearing his tatty pyjamas and eating so sloppily that there’s food dribbling down his chin, but he would still be the most attractive person Viktor has ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on. Telling Yuuri that right now mightn’t be the best course of action, though.

“Maybe it’s time to think about that,” Viktor says gently. “What does _Eros_ mean to you?”

For what feels like a very long moment, Yuuri doesn’t say anything, just looks like he’d rather be melting into the ice beneath his skates. And then, “It’s… something I’m passionate about? Like… like katsudon.” Yuuri nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Yeah. Katsudon.”

 _Don’t push him_ , Viktor warns himself. “Okay, we can work with that,” he says.

“Yeah?” Yuuri gives Viktor a hopeful smile. “I really love katsudon, so I thought… you know.”

“Well, I think katsudon is pretty sexy,” Viktor says. He winks, and it’s cheesy, but he can’t help his sense of humour. “Especially when I’m eating it with you.”

It’s almost too much, too soon, but then it isn’t, and Yuuri laughs, relaxes into the moment. He blushes, forcing back a smile. “Okay. Let me try again. This time I’ll make it even tastier.”

Yuuri goes back out to the centre of the ice, assuming his starting pose. Not for the first time, Viktor wonders if he’s making a bit of a gamble, giving Yuuri this deeply personal programme to skate. It feels like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve, making Yuuri walk around wearing a sandwich board that reads, _Viktor Nikiforov choreographed this routine for me because he thinks I’m sexy_. And the theme— _On Love_ —that’s a big leap up from their comfortable if occasionally flirtatious friendship.

 _This is the language of love_ —that honour is thrown around to describe a lot of different languages. Viktor is inclined to think that it’s not so clear-cut. Any language can be the language of love if you use it to tell somebody you love them. Well, if Viktor and Yuuri’s language of love is comparing sex appeal to katsudon, Viktor will take it. He’ll learn to make katsudon—not that he’s ever done anything in a kitchen more complicated than frying a sausage—and he’ll become fluent in this language, if it means encouraging Yuuri to keep skating like this for as long as he can.

“What did you think?” Yuuri asks, skating back towards Viktor. “I know that’s only the step sequences, but I want to make sure I know the programme well enough before I add the jumps.”

Viktor puts one finger to his lips. “It’s not your step sequences I’m worried about,” he says. “You should be able to get a perfect score in the performance component, but your jumps are sloppy. At this stage, it’s doing you more harm than good to leave them out.”

“Right. I’ll do it again with the jumps.”

“But no quads,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s hackles go up immediately. He looks like he might break out in a cold sweat at any moment now. “What?”

“There will be no quads in _Eros_ until you prove to me you can land them every time,” Viktor clarifies. “For now, replace them with triples.”

“I can land them,” Yuuri says stubbornly.

Viktor clicks his tongue—it’s cute that Yuuri’s trying, but Viktor is used to tougher coaches than he’ll ever be able to emulate, so the least he can do is make an attempt at imposing some sort of discipline. “Just yesterday you told me you can only land the quad sal in practice, and even then, not all the time. You’re going to have to do better than that to win back the quads in this programme.”

Just as Yuuri’s about to protest, Yuri Plisetsky chooses this as a perfectly inopportune moment to come skating by, because apparently he has nothing better to do.

“Twenty-whatever years old and you can’t even do quads,” Plisetsky says. “How do you expect Viktor to coach you when you’re like that?”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook either,” Viktor says—quickly, before Yuuri can wilt any more than he already has. “You don’t understand _agape_ as a concept yet. No more skating the full programme until you can prove you’re in touch with its meaning.”

Now neither of them are happy, but Viktor can’t keep the grin off his face. He’s not so bad at this coaching lark after all. And as he spends the rest of the morning watching the way Yuuri Katsuki seamlessly works reluctant triples into _Eros_ , and Yuri Plisetsky hacks away at one tiny segment of _Agape_ again and again, he can’t help but feel proud of his students, and feel that he would be proud whichever one of them he took to the Grand Prix Series.

Not that he wouldn’t prefer one to the other.

 

* * *

  

“Alright, that’s it,” Viktor says. “Enough training for today.”

“I’m just getting started!” Yuri Plisetsky protests, even though he’s evidently the more tired-out of the pair.

Viktor shakes his head. “You need to get in touch with your inner _agape_ , and you’re not going to manage that by beating your quad sal to death. And Yuuri—”

Truthfully, Viktor can’t criticise the way Yuuri has been working. Yuuri is still ironing out the creases in _Eros_ , but he seems to have an innate understanding of the mood behind it, and he’s followed Viktor’s instructions to the letter and avoided quads at all costs. (Although, Viktor thinks he might have been working on the quad salchow with Plisetsky while Viktor wasn’t paying attention. It’s very sweet to see them getting along, so he hasn’t said anything.) But if he’s pulling Plisetsky out of training, then Katsuki must follow.

“—you need to work on your _eros_.”

Viktor feels like the world’s biggest idiot the moment the words leave his mouth, but now it’s out there and he can’t take it back. He watches helplessly as Plisetsky laughs, mutters some immature jibe in Yuuri’s direction, and Yuuri colours bright scarlet.

“We’ll start by going for a run,” Viktor says. It sounds forced to his ears, but neither of them seem to notice, stepping out of the rink and putting the guards back on their skates. To seem like he’s being a proper coach, Viktor adds, “Don’t dawdle!”

They don’t, and in about five minutes everything is packed up and they’re ready to go. Viktor is still dependent on his map—he spreads it out across the low wall outside the Ice Castle; the reporters must’ve gotten tired of hanging around there all day, so it’s quiet enough for him to decide on a jogging route uninterrupted.

Yuuri leans over Viktor’s shoulder. “The beach is nice for running,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” Viktor tilts his head and suddenly his mouth is _very_ close to Yuuri’s. All the blood rushes to his head. “I haven’t had time to see it yet. That would be nice.”

“We should go swimming sometime,” Yuuri says. Without warning, he pokes a finger onto the map, pauses, draws his finger down Viktor’s, across the back of his hand and along his arm, slow and torturous. “If you’re up for it,” he adds.

Viktor is peripherally aware that his mouth is hanging open. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s. Yeah, let’s do that.”

He supposes this exactly what he deserves for telling Yuuri to work on his _eros_.

The flush creeping down Viktor’s neck aside, it’s a pleasant day, the sun dipping below dappled clouds and the scent of the ocean carried inland on a fresh breeze. Gulls call out across the shore and the sea is so, so blue—it reminds Viktor of Saint Petersburg. The exercise is a good distraction from the creeping homesickness that threatens Viktor’s peace of mind, but it’s a double-edged sword. If he had to pick anywhere to spend his retirement, he’d rather it was somewhere more like home than anywhere else.

Viktor does slow down eventually, letting the others race across the sand, challenging each other to sprints and running into the foam of the waves. He finds an outcrop of rock to sit on and watch as they tire each other out.

When they do stop, Yuri Plisetsky sticks his jacket down on the sand and sits there checking his phone, and Yuuri Katsuki ambles over to join Viktor, taking his time, his eyes on the horizon. He sits down on the rocks next to Viktor, not even winded.

“Is running supposed to make me more… appealing, or something?”

Viktor thinks about the single bead of sweat hanging off one of Yuuri’s eyelashes, the colour dusting his cheeks. “Running is good for lots of reasons,” he says.

“I know,” Yuuri says. “Part of a balanced training regime, and all that.”

“Tells you a lot about an athlete’s stamina, too,” Viktor says. “Yours is exceptional.”

Yuuri looks surprised at that, but he recovers quickly. “Can you think of any other ways to find out how good my stamina is?”

This flirting again—Viktor hopes beyond hope it means what he wants it to mean, but more likely it’s still Yuuri trying to get in touch with his _eros_. Well, two can play at this game.

“Skating drills,” Viktor says. “Weightlifting. Swimming.”

Yuuri nods. “Of course.”

Viktor nudges him. “I’m teasing. I know what you mean.”

“What do I mean?” Yuuri asks, suddenly nervous, as though he doesn’t quite know it himself.

Viktor opens his mouth to say something—something scandalous, something he _shouldn’t_ say—when Yuri Plisetsky appears in front of them, jacket slung over one shoulder and hands on his hips.

“Hey. Are we going to keep training or not?”

“Your jacket is covered in sand,” Yuuri observes.

Plisetsky bristles. “So what?”

In one fluid movement, Yuuri jumps to his feet and grabs Plisetsky’s jacket, waving it like a red flag to a bull. Plisetsky makes a grab for it and Yuuri reacts fast, taking two nimble steps backwards, balancing on his heels.

“So, it’d be a shame for it to get any more sand on it,” Yuuri says, and when Plisetsky starts forward again, Yuuri breaks into a run, laughing.

Viktor is content to watch from his place on the rock. He presses his palms flat to the uneven surface behind him and leans backwards, letting the breeze rush by him. He might have been worried about the competitiveness and potential bad blood between his students, but now there’s no need. These things have a way of sorting themselves out.

 

* * *

 

“The quads are back in.”

Yuuri makes a surprised squawking noise—maybe this isn’t the best time to tell him, when they’re relaxing in the baths after a long day hard at work. “Really?”

Viktor nods. “Really. Don’t you believe me, Yuuri?”

“I don’t know why I said that,” Yuuri says, sinking lower in the water. “Of course I believe you.”

“It’s okay to be surprised,” Viktor says. He’s still working out what it means to be a coach, after all, and sometimes that’s going to involve making these snap decisions and rescinding them at a moment’s notice. “I have one other change in mind: I’m moving all the jumps to the second half.”

Comprehension settles slowly across Yuuri’s features. “Oh, that’s—okay. Okay. Second half. Jumps.”

“You have the stamina for it,” Viktor says, “and when you’re still uncertain on your quads, we need to try to maximise your score however possible. I think you can do it.”

Yuuri doesn’t look so sure.

Viktor amends, “I _know_ you can do it.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, and his voice only waves a little bit this time.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Viktor says. “This makes your technical component base score higher than Yurio’s.”

“But that means—the prizes—”

Viktor pauses for a moment, thinks how best to phrase what he wants to say. “I don’t think of it as giving you an unfair advantage. It’s playing to your strengths, that’s all.”

“Don’t you _want_ me to have an advantage?” Yuuri asks.

Before Viktor can ask what exactly he means, Yuuri’s arms break the surface of the water, sending ripples out around him as he swims so he’s sitting closer to Viktor.

“I would’ve thought,” Yuuri continues, “that given the nature of the prizes we chose, you’d naturally prefer if one of us won over the other.”

“That would be unprofessional of me,” Viktor says, because it’s true, but Yuuri doesn’t need to know that much.

Yuuri nods. He tucks his chin against his shoulder furthest away from Viktor, bashful, but that doesn’t stop him from being outrageously forward. “I know that. But, well… I’m trying _so_ hard to get in touch with my _eros_ , Viktor. It would be such a shame to let that go to waste.”

Viktor gulps. He honest to god gulps, swallows whatever he might want to say, because this is something else. He’s created a monster. For all that being so flirtatious seems to embarrass Yuuri, he’s damn good at it.

“It would be a shame,” Viktor agrees.

“So?” Yuuri says, looking up properly now, facing Viktor. “Are you going to give me that advantage?”

There are a couple of things Viktor could do right now: he could take the bait and kiss Yuuri; he could do a lot more than just kiss him, things he’s pretty sure are against the rules in the bathhouse. Or he could be honest with himself and with his circumstances; he doesn’t know what he wants from this side of his relationship with Yuuri, not yet, and that he came here to be Yuuri’s coach, not his lover. And there’s still the ultimatum hanging over his head—even with all of Yuuri’s jumps in the second half, this could all end in a few days, and above all else, Viktor wants to spare himself that heartbreak at whatever cost.

For the first time in his life, the master of surprise is going to do the sensible thing.

“You have that advantage in my heart, but what you make of it is up to you.” Viktor breathes out slowly, considering; he needs to say this in precisely the right way. “Yuuri, whatever else I am to you, I’m also your coach. We have a big day of training tomorrow, since you’re going to be putting the quads back into your programme. You should rest.”

“You’re right,” Yuuri says. “I’m s—”

“And don’t you dare apologise,” Viktor interrupts. “Okay?”

As they get out of the hot spring, Yuuri is dripping wet and disarmingly beautiful, and Viktor keeps his eyes off him as best he can. He wonders if he’s done the right thing.

“Um, Viktor?”

Now Viktor looks. Yuuri is expectant, waiting for Viktor to acknowledge him before he goes on, so Viktor says, “Yes?”

“Do you think—” Yuuri stops, clearing his throat. “Do you think I understand _eros_ now?”

“I think you’ve always understood it,” Viktor says. He gives Yuuri an apologetic smile. “I only said that because I didn’t want Yurio to feel singled out.”

“So all this was for nothing?” Yuuri says, visibly annoyed.

Viktor puts a hand on Yuuri’s upper arm. He’s made it clear enough that for now, they should just be coach and student. But he hopes he’s also made it clear that he wants them to be something else, eventually. “It wasn’t for nothing,” he says.

Yuuri’s expression softens. “I understand.”

For now, that’s enough.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _tomorrow night, ONSEN ON ICE debuts the SPs i choreographed for @ykatsuki and @yuri-plisetsky! if you can make it to hasetsu, japan, don’t miss it!_

 

* * *

 

A day before the competition, Viktor realises his students have no costumes to wear. Actually, it’s Yuri Plisetsky who realises this, but Viktor takes credit because he’s the one to take action.

“We can’t just skate in our training clothes,” Plisetsky says, outraged at Yuuri’s suggestion. Viktor had thought it was a pretty good suggestion, but then he thinks Yuuri’s legs look incredible in his tight black leggings and those loose old shirts he wears. Plisetsky adds, “I’ll have something sent from Russia.”

“In a _day_?” Yuuri says, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

That’s when Viktor gets his brainwave. “I know! Yuuri, do you have any of your old costumes lying around?”

“Obviously not, idiot,” Plisetsky says. “They’re in Russia.”

“Other Yuuri,” Viktor prompts.

Yuuri flinches, his shoulders rising almost up to his ears as he retreats back into himself. “My old costumes are… they’re not pretty, Viktor.”

“They’re probably the best we can do at short notice,” Viktor says, waving it off. “Come on, Yuuri—”

“No, really,” Yuuri protests. “It’s embarrassing.”

It’s Yuuri’s confidence, getting in the way, as it always does. Viktor sits back as Plisetsky argues with Yuuri, trying to push him to dig out his old costumes, or so help him, he _will_ get his entire wardrobe shipped in from Russia, never mind that they only have a day. What would Yakov do in this situation? He would probably make them skate in their training clothes, Viktor realises. Yakov would never let his students get away with such an egregious lack of planning. He would make sure they were duly embarrassed as punishment. But Viktor pays much more heed to aesthetic concerns, and he is going to have them skating in Yuuri’s old costumes, whatever it takes.

He realises, belatedly, exactly what it will take.

“Yuuri, you’ve followed my career, haven’t you?” he says.

Plisetsky makes some sort of disgusted noise. “You’ve been competing since before I was born, geezer. Obviously not.”

“Again,” Viktor says, “other Yuuri.”

“Oh, um, yes,” Yuuri says. He does not look at either of them.

Viktor sighs and gets his phone out of his pocket. “Then you’ll remember these.”

He’s more savvy about his fandom than people tend to think—it’s a quick google to get to the self-proclaimed #1 unofficial Viktor Nikiforov fansite, another few clicks to get to their image gallery. Viktor goes for the worst first, a picture of his outfit for his 2007 exhibition skate, which was designed to his very exacting specifications: “make me look like Madonna.”

“Here,” he says, turning his phone around so they can see the screen. “You think you have an embarrassing past?”

Plisetsky bursts out laughing, and Yuuri says, very quietly, “Oh, that was always one of my favourites.”

Viktor finds another shocker—his white jumpsuit with the flares for his 2005 free skate to _Super Trouper_ , the 2008 burgundy satin number with a split down the side even more outrageous than the kind Chris is into these days—and he relaxes into the moment. This isn’t that embarrassing. Maybe when he thinks about the person he used to be, he can’t help but cringe, but here are two people looking at him with new eyes and only judging him a little—it’s like they’re laughing with him, not at him. Sitting on the floor of the dining room in Yu-topia, Viktor is more at home than he’s felt in years.

“Okay, point taken,” Yuuri says. He’s taken command of Viktor’s phone now, pinching the screen to zoom in on the 2006 short programme costume, various clashing shades of neon and translucence. “I only have my oldest costumes here, though, from before I moved to Detroit. I’m not even sure if they’ll fit me.”

“Better than nothing,” Plisetsky grumbles.

“Lead the way!” Viktor says.

The costumes are stored in a back-room, away from all the guest areas. There are a lot of other things in this room’s wardrobe, aprons and checkered chefs’ trousers, and about four years worth of figure skating costumes.

Straight away, Plisetsky goes for one that’s a smooth gradient, white to sky-blue, and studded with rhinestones in rivulets like torrential rain.

“That’s one of my oldest,” Yuuri tells him. “It’ll definitely fit you.”

Plisetsky is so taken with the costume he doesn’t even notice the jibe about his height.

“For me—” Yuuri begins. He leafs through the costumes, dangling from dusty wire hangers. “I think, this one.”

When he pulls it out, Viktor feels a tug of something familiar. The costume is mostly black, but there are sharp lines of a very dark red tracing out patterns like leaves, or paisley, from top to bottom, and the patterns are marked with more rhinestones, flashing silver in the dim light of the back-room.

“Ah, now this really is embarrassing,” Yuuri says, pulling the costume close to his chest, half-skirt fluttering, and breaking Viktor’s concentration. “I had this designed to look like the costume you wore for Junior Worlds in 2000. That was when I first saw you skate.”

“You just keep surprising me, Yuuri,” Viktor says, and his voice comes out a lot softer than he’d intended.

“I’d almost forgotten about it,” Yuuri says. “I should thank you for pushing me to look at all of these old costumes. I’ve always thought it’s so embarrassing, but… seeing you acting the same about your old costumes made me realise, maybe I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

“You’re definitely not the only one.”

Viktor looks at Yuuri and sees his past and his present and his future, all standing together. He tries to think about the possibility of Yuuri losing the competition tomorrow, of having to go back to Russia, and—he doesn’t know what he’d do.

 

* * *

 

This is the incontrovertible fact: tonight, Yuri Plisetsky skated better than Yuuri Katsuki. Had it been a real competition, Yuri Plisetsky’s technical component would have been high enough to overcome Yuuri Katsuki’s strong performance component, due to his technical slip-ups. His nerves. Any judge would’ve given the win to Yuri Plisetsky, and Viktor—god, Viktor is _trying_ to be even-handed, but it’s hard when he can’t find Yuuri Katsuki anywhere and he wants to tell him that he couldn’t be even-handed about this, not in a thousand years.

Yuuri can’t have gone far. Viktor runs out of the Ice Castle, undignified in his haste, the sound of the crowd’s applause still raw in his ears. April is a wet month in Hasetsu and the pavement is slick with rain that must’ve fallen while the competition was still going. Now, though, the only rain that falls is feather-light, pinprick droplets floating on the wind and blown into Viktor’s eyes, making it easier to pretend he’s not tearing up a little bit.

He finds Yuuri at last, back at the resort, sitting on the front steps and crying his eyes out.

 _I did this_ , Viktor can’t help but think.

“Yuuri,” he says, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m—”

“Go and pack your things, Viktor,” Yuuri says. He’s still wearing the costume designed after Viktor’s, rain and rhinestones glistening in the moonlight.

Viktor drops to his knees on the step below Yuuri. Water and mud stain his expensive trousers and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care_.

“Yuuri, look at me.”

For what it’s worth, Yuuri _does_ look at him, and Viktor regrets it almost immediately. The expression on Yuuri’s face is one of such unadulterated hurt that Viktor wants to cry until his eyes are red like Yuuri’s. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

“Why did you ask to choose your prize?” Viktor says. “Surely you knew that Yurio would pick something like—”

“Don’t go blaming this on me,” Yuuri snaps. “I thought I would win. Maybe I was being too cocky, maybe that gold medal went to my head, but—”

“No, no,” Viktor says. He takes Yuuri’s hands in his, rubs his thumbs in circles across Yuuri’s knuckles. “I didn’t mean that. You have so much to be proud of. One close call doesn’t mean anything in the long-term.”

“Maybe I should’ve chosen _Agape_ ,” Yuuri says, bitter.

“Absolutely not,” Viktor says, his tone firmer than before. Softening, he says, “You chose _Eros_ , and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Indulge me—tell me again why you chose it?”

Yuuri gives Viktor a genuine, if wobbly, smile. “You know why,” he says.

“I do,” Viktor says. Because this is who they are now, this is what’s blossoming between them. Viktor brings one of Yuuri’s hands towards him and, before he can think too deeply about it, presses a light kiss to his knuckles. “And I’m going to stay—for as long as you need me.”

“And go back on your promise?” Yuuri asks.

“I’ve gone back on promises before,” Viktor says. “What’s one more?”

“Yurio’s going to be _so_ mad.”

Viktor shrugs. “I’ve choreographed him a short programme. That’s all he wanted, really.”

Yuuri looks at Viktor for a good long moment, his jaw hanging slack in some semblance of disbelief. Then, he laughs, that bright and refreshing laugh that is just one of the many reasons Viktor is so enamoured with him.

“You’re really staying,” Yuuri says.

Whatever Viktor does here, now—this is it, this is the choice that will change his life. He remembers what Yakov said: if he throws away his career to spend the whole of the next season coaching, there’s no going back to the ice. Up until now, if not for his crush, Viktor could so easily have turned his back on Yuuri, left Japan, returned to skate another season. Maybe that’s why he accepted Yuri Plisetsky’s part of the ultimatum. But that option no longer feels sufficient. That life isn’t going to give him the fulfilment he needs. This—here, now—this is.

“I’m really staying,” Viktor confirms.

And then Yuuri pulls him close without warning, wraps his arms around Viktor’s back and presses their chests together, Viktor’s head resting in the crook of Yuuri’s neck. There’s a warmth that spreads through Viktor, and it’s not just from the contact.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Anything for you,” Viktor says.

Yuuri draws back, surprised. Viktor surprises himself too, because he means it. He really _would_ do anything for Yuuri, even though they’ve barely known each other two weeks.

If it wasn’t when he first saw Yuuri after the Grand Prix Final, or when he watched the video of Yuuri performing his _Stay Close To Me_ routine, or any of number of times since he’s moved to Hasetsu, this is it. This is the moment when Viktor knows that, irrevocably and beyond the point of return, he has fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really sorry that i haven't posted the side-story today like i promised! last week was busy and also, i used up a bunch of my writing energy reacting to chihokogate. because i'm massively bogged down with real life stuff at the moment, i will post this chapter's side-story next monday, and there'll be a two-week break until chapter 4 of this fic. thank you for bearing with me! in the meantime, you can hang out in the vicinity of my [tumblr](https://renaissancefic.tumblr.com/) for progress updates and stuff.
> 
> (just in case anyone is confused about the dates dropped in this chapter, the timeline i use for all my fic assumes yoi takes place in 2013, based on the order of grand prix series events in the show.)


	4. Episode 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [have you read the chapter 3 side-story from yuri p.'s perspective yet?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10855095)

Hasetsu is, fundamentally, a quiet town—this detail had fallen by the wayside with Yuri Pliestsky’s presence, but now that he’s gone Viktor notices it more keenly than ever. There are so few guests at the only resort, little to no traffic on the street, and when he wakes up it’s by the light of the sun, not to the tune of bird song or car horns.

The silence helps channel his focus: he’s here to coach Yuuri Katsuki to victory, no more, no less.

His initial motivation for uprooting had been more selfish. But he was sad, and not thinking straight, and now that the peaceful ambience of Hasetsu has well and truly got to him, he fancies himself of sound enough mind to make big decisions. And he remembers what Minako said—she’s right, that Yuuri doesn’t need someone who’s going to play him around for their own ends. Yuuri deserves so much more than that.

It’s not that Viktor is avoiding Yuuri. That would be impossible, given that they spend all day working together at the rink. It’s just that, in his time off, he gives Yuuri space.

Viktor is not an idiot. He knows that there’s something between him and Yuuri—attraction; romantic, sexual, or otherwise—and he knows that it wouldn’t take much to shift their dynamic from “maybe” to “definitely.” All it would take is a kiss, and god, Viktor badly wants to kiss Yuuri, but he also wants to see another gold medal around Yuuri’s neck, and he won’t accomplish that by being unprofessional.

He feels the lack of anything more to their relationship like an ache in the chest, like the quiet of the public gardens behind the Ice Castle, where the seagulls don’t call and the wind doesn’t blow.

“I’ve never produced my own programme before,” Yuuri says like some great admission of guilt, sitting a hand’s breadth away from Viktor, too far.

“Never even chosen your own music?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri shrugs. “Celestino would’ve let me, but… well, I tried once, but he didn’t like the piece. A friend of mine composed it for me.”

“Can I have a listen?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says. He fumbles in his jacket pocket for his phone and unwinds the earphones, handing one bud to Viktor. “It’s… I guess it’s pretty.”

It is pretty. It’s not much more than pretty, but there’s definitely potential. Viktor doesn’t think much more of it than that—he’s trying not to focus on the fact that he’s only one earphone cord away from Yuuri, and how oddly intimate it is.

“Are you still in touch with your friend?” Viktor asks. “It doesn’t need to be them, but I want you to be in charge of the music, and this seems like a good place to start.”

“Why?” Yuuri flusters quickly. “I mean—couldn’t you just choose my music for me? That’s how I got gold, after all.”

“You got gold by performing better than everyone else,” Viktor says. “Next question!”

“You really want me to do this, huh?” Yuuri says. He looks confused, but he gives Viktor one of those brilliant smiles anyway. “Okay. I’ll see if I can dig up her email address.”

“Great!” Viktor claps his hands together, because the alternative is grabbing Yuuri’s hands in his, and he’s really trying not to do that so much anymore. “I can’t wait to see what she comes up with.”

They finish eating their lunch in the garden and head back in to the rink. Getting Yuuri to focus on practise is easier since Yuri Plisetsky left, but Yuuri skates like he’s missing something, and Viktor doesn’t know— _can’t_ know, in all likelihood—what that is. He looks out across the ice until his vision is swimming at the edges.

The thing is, Viktor _isn’t_ avoiding Yuuri. He’s not ignoring him and he’s not pushing him away. He’s just… keeping him at a professional distance. There’s nothing wrong with that.

 _Anything for you_ , Viktor thinks. Anything to get Yuuri through the next season, anything to keep his confidence levels high. That’s what Yuuri wants, after all. He wants Viktor be his coach. That’s their agreement. It doesn’t matter that one day they might be something else. For now, it’s all about the skating.

Viktor has to tell himself that, because he doesn’t know how to manage the in between, the numbers between zero and a hundred, and he doesn’t know how to give only part of  himself to something so precious.

So he doesn’t think about it. With time, he hopes, it’ll improve.

 

* * *

 

“Yakov!”

The answering groan is such a familiar sound that Viktor sighs—he wouldn’t call himself homesick by any means, but something about hearing Yakov’s trademark audible frustration grounds him, makes him feel more secure.

“Do you know what time it is, Vitya?” Yakov demands.

Viktor checks his watch. “Isn’t it the afternoon over there? Don’t tell me you were napping on the job, Yakov!”

“I see Japan has made you no less insolent,” Yakov says. “I am in the middle of coaching—something you should know all about by now.”

“About that,” Viktor says. He hears the intake of breath that signals an impending lecture and presses on before Yakov can interrupt. “That's why I’m calling. I wanted to ask for advice.”

“You’ve been coaching Katsuki for nearly a month, and _now_ you ask for advice?” Viktor pictures Yakov pausing to shake his head. “What have you been teaching that poor boy?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t approve of,” Viktor assures him.

Yakov snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it. This isn’t another one of your flirtations, is it?”

When Yakov talks about Viktor’s “flirtations,” he never means romances. It’s not as though Viktor’s ever had time for romance, ever really contemplated what it could be like before he knelt in the dirt and told Yuuri Katsuki he wanted to be by his side forever. No, Yakov is referring to more material concerns—the phases Viktor has been through over the years, the obsessions, the season he choreographed all of his programmes to ABBA songs, the year he went to all of his galas and banquets dressed like a Culture Club cover band reject. Viktor knows he has a short attention span, latches onto ideas and then lets them go. This isn’t one of those situations.

All he says to Yakov is, “No, it isn’t.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Yakov says. “But it’s so hard to imagine you being serious about anything other than figure skating.”

“This _is_ figure skating,” Viktor says, neglecting to mention that it’s also Yuuri, who has so comprehensively captured his heart.

Yakov is silent for a moment, the sound of his thoughts rattling around and echoing down the connection. At last, he asks, “How much time a day do you spend on drills? How about his short programme? I saw it on the internet, you know—Mila showed me how to use that YouTube site. Have you even started work on a free skate?”

Viktor closes his eyes and smiles, breathes in the fresh night air and leans back on his chair in the front garden of the resort. It’s a cool evening, and Yuuri is busy around the bathhouse with Mari. At least, Viktor presumes that’s what he’s doing. He hasn’t spoken to Yuuri since dinner. And now, after all this time—a lecture from Yakov is exactlywhat he needs to bring him back down to Earth.

“Only about two hours, most of the rest of the day, and yes,” Viktor says.

“Good,” Yakov says. “His footwork doesn’t need drilling—you see him skate every day, you should know this. Go over his jumps. That quad salchow has potential, but not enough finesse.”

“Should I be taking notes?” Viktor asks.

Not that he needs to. As the conversation wears on and the sky grows an inkier blue, Yakov runs through advice that is as familiar as the mental picture of the rink back in Saint Petersburg that Viktor keeps at the back of his mind. It feels like a lot of time passes, but when Viktor checks his watch he sees that it’s only been twenty minutes. Yuuri’s probably done helping Mari by now. He could go and find Yuuri, ask if his musician friend has written back to him, see if he’s doing anything fun, see if maybe Viktor could join him.

But, no—Viktor needs to keep his professional distance. That’s not up for debate, not right now.

Yakov winds down with some pointers about how Viktor ought to structure Yuuri’s cool-down stretches, and he’s on the verge of hanging up when Viktor hears shouting in the background.

“That’s the usual suspects,” Yakov says.

“Ah, I’ve missed them,” Viktor says. He doesn’t think this is entirely the truth, but it’s what he needs to say for his own peace of mind.

From out of a heavy silence, Yakov says, “They want to speak to you.”

A second later, Viktor hears Yakov’s phone being manhandled away from him, and there’s snapping and scuffling before it settles down again, and a new voice takes over.

“Hey old man, are you behaving yourself?”

“Why, Yurio,” Viktor says, “you have such a low opinion of me! Can you imagine me being anything other than a perfect model of propriety?”

“Yes,” Yuri says simply. “How’s—how’s Katsuki?”

Viktor can’t help but laugh. It’s cute how Yuri thinks they don’t know he cares. He cares enough to have posted boastingly on his Instagram about how he’s borrowing an old costume that belonged to _the_ Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix winner and don’t you forget it.

“He’s doing wonderfully,” Viktor says. “How’s _Agape_?”

“ _Agape_ is—”

Mila’s voice cuts in. “We love _Agape_ , Viktor! Your choreography is so good, even when it’s for other people. I found a video of _Eros_ , too. You’re a lucky guy, huh?”

“What the fuck, Mila!” Yuri shouts, somewhat removed from the phone, thankfully for Viktor’s poor eardrums. “Katsuki can do better than him.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion,” Mila says. “Sorry, Viktor. As I was saying—”

“Yuuri and I aren’t—” Viktor says. He feels like a teenager. “If that’s what you’re thinking. We’re not, you know.”

“Banging?”

Viktor wrinkles his nose. “No. I’m Yuuri’s _coach_ , Mila.”

He can practically hear her shrugging.

“Anyway, aren’t you meant to be training?” he teases. “Yakov already yelled at me for interrupting him. I’m a coach now, too, so I’d better be harsh on you.”

“Are you really?” Mila asks. She pauses. “You’re… not coming back to the ice?”

Now, it’s easy for Viktor not to hesitate when he says, “No. I’m not.”

The other end of the line goes eerily silent. Is it really that much of a big deal? It had stung at the time, but that was because Viktor had a lot of other things going on in his life; sad things, which were undeniably messing with his mental state. No-one else has any excuse. Figure skaters retire all the time. Viktor knows he’s the best, but that shouldn’t mean anything. Should it?

His thoughts are interrupted by another voice on the line—Georgi.

“How wonderful it is to be young and in love,” he gushes.

Once Georgi gets started, it’s guaranteed to be a long time before he stops. Viktor sits back, smiling to himself, and lets him talk.

“If I had known you flew out to Japan because you were chasing romance, I would’ve given you some pointers before you left. You could bring Yuuri to Japan, we could go on double dates, you two, me and Anya… have I told you about Anya? I think this is it, finally—”

“ _Georgi_ , that is enough.” It’s Yakov again. “I’m sorry about them, Vitya. I should not have spent so long talking to you. We need to get back to work. The day is young here.”

“Oh well, I can distract you some other time,” Viktor says. He shuts his eyes. “Thanks for the pointers.”

“Don’t get used to being coddled,” Yakov says, and hangs up.

Viktor slouches even further down in his chair. There’s something very weird about speaking to his Russian rinkmates again after so long. Stranger yet that they all seem to be under the impression that Viktor and Yuuri are an item, when the truth is that—Viktor is _not_ avoiding Yuuri. He’s just keeping a professional distance.

The screen door to the resort rattles open. Viktor keeps his eyes closed and listens to the footsteps approach until they come to a halt right in front of him. Like this, he could be talking on the phone, picking out voices in the background. Only now, the person in front of him is speaking English. Viktor’s brain is still working in Russian, and it takes him a moment to react, sitting up straighter and opening his eyes.

“Yuuri’s looking for you.” It’s Mari. “He said to tell you Ketty sent him the music.”

Viktor jumps to his feet. “Ah, how exciting!”

As he’s leaving, Mari reaches out almost like she’s going to put a hand on his arm. She draws back at the last moment. “Don’t keep him waiting,” is all she says.

It feels like she means something else.

 

* * *

 

The last time Viktor chatted one-on-one with Minako, she had threatened him under the false assumption that he was playing with Yuuri’s heart, and once they were on the same page, Viktor had proceeded to get so plastered that he doesn’t remember anything else that passed between them that night. Now, he’s beginning to wonder if he didn’t say something he ought to remember—if only to regret it.

“You’re like a faulty tap,” Minako tells him.

They’re rinkside, watching Yuuri skate through _Eros_. His quad salchows are getting better. Minako is ostensibly here to offer advice on Yuuri’s step sequences; apparently, his panic about not understanding _eros_ was so bad that he went to Minako for help, to refine his movements.

“What do you mean?” Viktor asks.

She makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh, but not an entirely exasperated huff either. “You run hot and then cold. It’s like you don’t know how to handle yourself around Yuuri.”

“I don’t,” Viktor says simply. “Does anyone?”

“People who’ve known him all his life, and don’t be like that,” Minako says. “Yuuri doesn’t need you putting him on a pedestal on top of everything else.”

Viktor doesn’t entirely understand what she means. He can’t help but hold Yuuri in the highest regard. Out there on the ice, he pauses and rewinds, coming back to where he was a few seconds ago and moving into the quad toe loop-triple toe loop combination. He executes it flawlessly, only stopping to gather himself, before skating back towards Viktor and Minako.

“Let’s see what you’re like as a coach, then,” Minako mutters, grinning.

There’s no way he’s going to let her down. If Viktor performs for Minako now, he can almost pretend that there’s nothing wrong, and he’s not avoiding Yuuri, not putting any sort of distance between them, professional or otherwise.

All too recklessly, he hoists himself up so he’s sitting perched on the barrier, and swings his legs over to the other side. “Yuuri! That was incredible!”

“That’s it?” Yuuri says. He seems stunned. “No criticism?”

“Only that you’re not working hard enough on your quad sal,” Viktor says, winking. “The quad-triple toe combo is beautiful, though. Very sexy.”

Yuuri brings a hand up to rest on the barrier, right beside Viktor’s legs. Viktor resists the urge to move away—or worse, to move closer.

“Is _erotic_ a stronger word than _sexy_?” Yuuri muses. “I mean, which is sexier? That doesn’t make sense, does it…”

“No, it makes sense,” Viktor says. He puts a finger to his lips. “I think they convey different things. Anyone can be sexy if they want to, but it takes a real artisan to be erotic.”

“I should try harder to be erotic,” Yuuri says. “This piece is about _eros_ , after all.”

“I am standing right here,” Minako says, “but by all means, keep flirting. Don’t mind me.”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide and he starts fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. “S-sorry, Minako, I’ll just—”

Without another word, he skates away.

“Aw,” Viktor says, “and we were doing so well.”

“So your idea of coaching Yuuri is to put the moves on him?” Minako says. “Unorthodox, but it seems to be working.”

“I’m not—”

There’s no way Viktor can defend himself from her accusation after that conversation. He doesn’t try to.

“I’m Yuuri’s coach, that’s all. Outside of practise, and getting him to bring out his inner _eros_ , I’m nothing but professional.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Minako says.

Viktor didn’t realise there _was_ a problem.

“You’re leading him on,” she continues. “You’re giving him false hope.”

“It’s not _false_ by any means,” Viktor says, annoyed. “Yuuri and I are—”

“Student and coach,” Minako says. She quirks one eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth are playing at a smile. “I’m not saying it’s right, for a student and a coach to have that kind of relationship with one another, but you’re already in a place where _coach_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. If you want him, let him know. But do it slowly. Unlike you, Yuuri is not one for surprises.”

“I should thank you,” Viktor says.

“Thank me later,” Minako says. “For now—I’ll leave you to do your job.”

He doesn’t know how Minako can see through him so easily. In only a month, she’s well and truly got his number. He looks back to the ice, to Yuuri skating figures aimlessly, waiting for guidance. Minako is right that Viktor needs to be more open with Yuuri, but she’s also right that he needs to take it slowly. And for now, what Yuuri needs is a coach. Nothing more, nothing less.

Viktor slides down off the barrier and onto the ice. The blades of his skates scrape comfortingly against the ice; he’s always felt more stable like this.

“Yuuri! Let’s work on your free skate!”

Their relationship can wait.

 

* * *

 

Okay. So outside of training, Viktor is avoiding Yuuri. A week after his conversation with Minako, he wakes to a knock at his bedroom door—he scrambles into clothes and slides the door open to find Yuuri there, and how much effort did it take for Yuuri to wake himself up this early?

“We,” Yuuri says, “are going to the beach.”

Yuuri is wearing vanishingly short shorts and an oversized t-shirt, rumpled like he’s just rolled out of bed this minute. His hair is so tangled it looks practically sentient. But he’s clearly alert enough to catch Viktor before he can disappear again.

“You might want to wake up properly first,” Viktor says, although he’s not sure he looks much better.

“ _You_ wanted to go swimming,” Yuuri says. “So we’re going swimming. Did you pack swimmers? Does it get warm enough to swim in Saint Petersburg?”

“Very funny,” Viktor says. “I have travelled, you know. Of course I packed swimmers.”

“Get changed, then,” Yuuri commands, and shuts the door.

Viktor decides he quite likes Yuuri this way, sleepy, bossy, wearing very little—and with the benefit of hindsight, Viktor recognises his shorts as swimmers. Yuuri must’ve been awake longer than his dishevelled appearance suggests.

It takes a while for Viktor to find his swimmers, buried at the bottom of his suitcase, and by the time he’s dressed and out of his room, Yuuri is nowhere to be seen. He eventually finds Yuuri near the front door, waiting with Vicchan on a leash. It’s such an idyllic, domestic scene that Viktor stops in his tracks. In another world, this could’ve been him and Makkachin, running alongside the waves on the beach in Hasetsu—but would it have been, if Makkachin hadn’t passed away, if Viktor hadn’t lost everything and gone searching for it halfway across the world?

Viktor stays still, lost in thought. and Yuuri doesn’t look up. He’s talking to Vicchan, and Viktor’s Japanese is at the perfect level to understand the kind of baby talk people reserve for their pets: “You want to go to the beach, boy? Want to come swimming with me and big Viktor?”

That catches his attention. “ _Big Viktor_ , huh?”

Yuuri jerks his neck up quickly and sharply, giving Viktor a panicked expression— _don’t ask_.

“It’s okay,” Viktor says, back in English. “I think it’s cute. I am much bigger than him, after all.”

“Mari started it,” Yuuri says, running one hand through Vicchan’s fur as he talks. “It got confusing for her when I was talking about my dog and my—uh, you, in the same breath. And mum’s always called you Vicchan—I think she figured it would humanise you, or something…”

Viktor laughs, kneeling down beside Yuuri and Vicchan. “Mari’s good at nicknames, isn’t she? Do you have a nickname I can call you?”

“Just Yuuri.”

“In Russian, I’d call you Yura,” Viktor says. “Or Yurochka, if I was being really affectionate.”

“What about for Viktor?” Yuuri asks. “I’m guessing Vicchan is out of the question.”

Indulgently, Viktor says, “You can call me Vitenka. Or Vitya, if you like.”

“Okay, Viktor,” Yuuri says.

Even after Viktor’s been avoiding him, Yuuri remains an expert at pulling his strings. Viktor can’t help puzzling over how Yuuri could have picked up so adept a skill in such a short acquaintance. The most sensible conclusion he can reach is that Yuuri is some sort of sorcerer.

“Well, let’s go,” Viktor says.

They don’t talk on the walk to the beach. Viktor is surprised to find that it’s dark outside— _how_ did Yuuri manage to wake up so early? _Is_ he a sorcerer?—and the idea of watching the sunrise at the beach is so beautiful that Viktor _can’t_ talk. By the time they arrive, the first rays of sun are creeping up behind heavy clouds.

Viktor shields his eyes with a hand, looks out to the horizon. “I don’t think we should swim while it’s dark,” he says.

“I didn’t really want to swim,” Yuuri says.

He flops down on the edge of the pathway, where concrete meets sand and the curvature of the land falls away into the sea. Viktor sits down beside him, enough of a distance apart for Vicchan to curl up between them.

“What did you want to do?” he asks.

“I wanted to talk,” Yuuri says. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Viktor breathes out. Breathes in again, keeps his eyes on the skyline, breathes out. The first gulls are starting to call for dawn.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have.”

Yuuri asks, “Why?” but his inflection suggests he already knows the answer.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Viktor says. “I’m trying to be professional, but—well, it sounds stupid, but in all the years I’ve devoted to skating, I’ve never taken time for myself. I’ve never had friends that I saw in person outside of competitions. I don’t think I know how to do it.”

“A good start would be to actually _talk_ to me,” Yuuri grumbles.

 _Don’t make me say it_ , Viktor thinks. He wants to tell Yuuri that he’s been avoiding him because he’s not sure how to broach the topic of steering their relationship into _conflict of interest_ territory, but before he can say anything, Yuuri broaches it for him.

“What do you want me to be to you?”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Your friend?” Yuuri continues. “Your student? Your—”

He doesn’t finish.

“I want us to be equals,” Viktor says. “I want you to be yourself, and I want to be with you.”

He doesn’t say in what sense.

“You know, I don’t feel like I deserved to win over you in Sochi,” Yuuri says, “and I don’t think anything could even convince me I did deserve it. It was—it was a fluke, that’s all. I did my best for the rest of the season, but… all I ever wanted was to be your equal. I never wanted to beat you, not really. I only wanted to hear you say that.”

“That you’re as good as me?” Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You should aim higher than that, you know.”

“I don’t need to,” Yuuri says.

Vicchan scrambles up and runs out onto the sand, barking at a seagull, and in the space he vacated, Yuuri’s hand is lying there between them, just asking to be held. So recklessly, impulsively, Viktor threads his fingers between Yuuri’s and grips tight. He’s not good at this—being the right person for someone else, _talking_ about it—but he needs Yuuri to know that he means every word he manages to say.

Seconds pass. Minutes.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Yuuri says. “Let’s go swimming.”

He gets to his feet, still holding Viktor’s hand, and Viktor drops his bag, lets Yuuri lead the way and pull him towards the water. The sun is coming up, the clouds parting—it’s going to be a beautiful day.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _sunrise in hasetsu <3 worth getting up so early, @ykatsuki?_

 

* * *

 

Hasetsu is more than Viktor deserves. He’s on good terms with Yuuri again, and the season is changing, the sun spending longer and longer in the sky; they spend more time, and more time with each other away from the rink, jogging together in the mornings, drinking together at night.

Technically, Yuuri doesn’t drink while he’s training. He tells Viktor this very seriously one night. They’re lying side by side on a red and blue striped beach towel, laid out on a grassy slope near the coast, watching the sunset. There’s a bottle of saké between them, half-full.

“There are exceptions to the rule,” Yuuri says. His speech is already slurred. “In Detroit—back in college—I would get drunk every time I bombed an exam. Thankfully that wasn’t often. But it was often enough.”

“You didn’t strike me as a big drinker,” Viktor says.

“I am the _biggest_ ,” Yuuri says. “The king of bad decisions. But you know that.”

Viktor rolls onto his side, a bit of saké from his shot glass dripping onto the towel. “Do I?”

“You want more examples?” Yuuri rolls over too, close enough that his nose brushes against Viktor’s. “I bad descisioned my way through college.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Viktor says. He is painfully aware that when he laughs, his nose presses against Yuuri’s and he feels it all throughout his body.

Then, Yuuri says, “I took pole dancing classes in Detroit,” and Viktor short-circuits completely, like he’s a live wire and he’s just been flung into the ocean.

“You—”

“I was told it would be good for my strength,” Yuuri says. “And for my stress, maybe. I think all I really learnt then was how to make a fool of myself, though.”

Viktor has no idea what to do with this information. There are trees nearby. Can trees double as poles? Can they go back to the main roads and find a street sign for Yuuri to swing around? Viktor needs to see this _immediately_.

He says, “I’ve made some bad decisions too.”

“Like retiring?” Yuuri asks.

“No,” Viktor says. He tries to shake his head, but it’s hard to pull off when he’s sideways. “This is the best thing I’ve done for myself in a long time.”

Yuuri moves a little closer. “Have you talked to anyone about it? Your depression, I mean.”

 _Depression_ is an awfully big word. When Yuuri puts it like that, it’s hard to argue with his assessment, but framing it in those terms makes it seem painfully real—it makes Viktor wonder if the way he felt after Makkachin’s passing was a symptom, not a problem in and of itself.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I haven’t.”

“That’s okay too,” Yuuri says. “Sometimes drunken armchair therapy is a good temporary solution. But if it keeps going—you should. See someone, I mean. I did. Maybe the only good decision I made in Detroit.”

“What would I do without you, Yuuri?”

Viktor is feeling bold—he finishes his saké and lets the glass fall out of his hands, brings his arm up to rest around Yuuri’s waist. A moment later, he feels Yuuri take hold of him too, pull him closer. They lie there in complete stillness for what could be seconds, could be minutes.

When at last Viktor looks up, looks at Yuuri properly, Yuuri is smiling. His smile extends to his eyes, crinkled at the corners, and his eyes are bright under the moonlight like twin beacons out at sea. He shuts them briefly, the light flickering away with the sweep of his eyelashes—time seems to shudder to a halt for Viktor, and every frame of every flutter as Yuuri opens his eyes again is like a revelation, before they’re open again and it’s like basking in direct sunlight.

“We should drink together more often,” Yuuri says.

Then, his eyelashes start to shutter together, the beacons strobing in and out until they close altogether. They lie together for a very long while. Viktor doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to disturb Yuuri. He’ll happily leave the pole dancing for another night if  it means he can stay close to Yuuri like this for as long as possible.

 

* * *

 

They do drink together again, and soon. It’s at the end of a long day and Yuuri is visibly worn-down, not something that happens often to someone with stamina like his. They’ve been working on his free skate all day, and it must be the unfamiliarity of it wearing on Yuuri, the new movements of the step sequences they’ve worked together to choreograph.

The piece—written by Yuuri’s old college friend—had arrived nameless, with only a note in the email, that had made Yuuri blush something vicious, but he had shown Viktor anyway: _for you to name… shape your own future, yuuri!_

So that afternoon, sitting back on a rinkside bench, their shoulders touching, Viktor had handed Yuuri a permanent marker to write the track’s name across the CD.

There’s something so emotionally draining about it that Viktor would’ve started drinking anyway, even if they didn’t return to the resort’s bar full of rowdy football fans watching a Sagan Tosu match, and to Yuuri’s father thrusting overflowing glasses of beer into their waiting hands.

“Well, I suppose we can stay a while,” Yuuri says.

Viktor is already onto his second beer.

He’s never been one for football—or, in fact, any sports other than figure skating, ice hockey, and curling—and the fact that he can’t understand any of the commentary doesn’t help. It’s disarming how little he can comprehend, especially given that he really did think his Japanese was improving. Occasionally one of the spectators comes up to him and Yuuri, asks something Yuuri in the kind of rapid-fire dialect that Viktor’s cheap textbook doesn’t cover—it’s hard enough that he’s been learning an eighth language in his second, and it’s like salt in the wound that, although Yuuri informs him he’s picking up a Kyushu accent, he _still_ can’t understand what’s going on around him.

A few minutes after the game finishes, someone’s put on music and Yuuri’s father is shirtless and dancing on the tables. Viktor presumes his team won. This must be where Yuuri gets it from.

“We should dance,” Yuuri says. When he stands up, he’s swaying.

Viktor has lost count of how many beers he’s up to. It’s not his drink of choice, so he always ends up drinking it dangerously quickly. He could stand up too, but he’s not sure how long he’d last.

Yuuri is insistent. He holds out a hand. “Viktor. Dance with me.”

That’s when Viktor remembers that not only does Yuuri have a background in ballet, _he knows how to pole dance_.

“Okay.”

He takes Yuuri’s hand and lets him bear most of the heft—Yuuri is surprisingly strong for his size, and Viktor files that away as something to think about when he’s far enough removed from the idea of professionalism that the thought of Yuuri lifting him up and pinning him against a wall and screwing him senseless isn’t tinged with guilt.

“Have you danced before?” Yuuri asks, pulling Viktor into a slow two-step. “You’re very good at it.”

“Ballet was a mandatory part of my training,” Viktor says.

Yuuri nods. “Great. Good. Very good! Do you think we can go any faster than this?”

“Won’t know until we find out,” Viktor says. “I mean—until we try.”

He giggles. Oh god, he’s really drunk.

“We won’t try until we find out,” Yuuri says. He seems satisfied with this.

They spin around the dining room, disregarding the tempo of the tune playing on the radio. A few of the drunk football fans applaud, and then Yuuri leads Viktor away from the music, down a corridor, until it’s just the two of them dancing to no music. Very slowly, like an unwinding spring, they come to a stop, hands joined on one side, settled at their shoulders on the other.

This is it. Viktor leans forward, and all the alcohol hits him at once, his stomach lurches, and he feels like he’s going to—

“Bathroom,” he chokes out. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide with panic and he drags Viktor by the hand towards the bathroom and almost flings him in, shutting the door behind him.

So much for their night together.

Viktor stays in there for too long, doubled over the toilet. When he’s finished, it’s much later, and he staggers dizzily back into the corridor. Yu-topia is too quiet in the aftermath of the party, wind blowing in through windows half-opened and following Viktor down the corridors like a ghost, a haunted, empty rattle. It’s the most unwelcoming Hasetsu has ever felt, and Viktor wonders if that mightn’t be because he’s recalibrating. After tonight, he and Yuuri are—it’s still tentative. They’re close, they’re not awkward anymore, but their relationships sits in a liminal space between _less_ and _more_.

“I am his coach,” Viktor reminds himself out loud. Not like he’d forget.

His late-night wandering finds him outside Yuuri’s door, because of course it does. Viktor pauses, fist hovering over the screen door. Before he can decide whether or not to knock, he finds that he’s knocking anyway, so that’s that decision made.

Yuuri comes to the door wide awake, not groggy like Viktor. “What’s—oh! Are you feeling better?”

“I think so,” Viktor says. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says, stepping aside. “I was just gaming.”

“So late? Yuuri, you should be getting your beauty sleep.”

The expression Yuuri’s face settles into is distinctly un-beautiful, but Viktor thinks it’s gorgeous anyway. Yuuri settles back down at his computer, and Viktor closes the screen door behind him, lying down on Yuuri’s bed.

He hasn’t been in Yuuri’s room before. Yuuri had let him in so easily. With the quiet sounds of mayhem in whatever game Yuuri’s playing providing background noise, Viktor takes in the sights. It’d lived-in, nothing like a room that Yuuri’s been away from for the last five years. Except—

“Yuuri, these walls are so bare,” Viktor says. “It looks like there used to be posters up, judging by those blu-tack marks.”

“There _were_ posters,” Yuuri says, not looking away from his game. He does not elaborate.

“I guess you got too old for it,” Viktor says. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching out. Yuuri’s bed is almost too short for him. “That’s alright. I used to have posters in my room too, when I was a kid.”

They fall back into silence. It’s a comfortable bed, for all its shortcomings. Viktor could get used to sleeping here. Then again, the bed in his guest room is double-wide. Maybe he should invite Yuuri back there. Just as he’s considering asking, though, Yuuri shuts off his game abruptly and comes to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at Viktor, his hair falling in his eyes.

 _He looks so gentle like this_ , Viktor thinks. “What’s up?” he says.

“Stay the night?” Yuuri asks, hesitant.

“Of course,” Viktor says.

The bed is barely big enough for both of them, but they’ll manage. Viktor is still fully-clothed, but he can sleep like this at a push, and he holds himself back to watching out of only the corner of his eyes as Yuuri gets changed. The very fact that Yuuri trusts him enough to change in front of him—well, that’s more than enough for Viktor.

After months, he’s finally ready. He’s ready to stop playing the responsible coach and start playing all of his cards, because he is in love, damn it all, and he is going to get his happy ending.

He scooches over, making room for Yuuri and patting the bed next to him. Yuuri joins him, and Viktor falls in love all over again, with the way the bed dips, with the way their bodies fit together side-by-side, and though it’s only a little bit of contact, it feels electric.

“Goodnight, Yuuri,” he says.

Yuuri shifts, moves closer. “Night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i started this i was going to stick to a "one chapter per episode" structure but for pacing reasons i've made the decision to deviate a bit. so don't fret, grand prix assignments will be in the next chapter, and then the regional championships.


	5. Episode 5

Viktor is an early riser and Yuuri, if he weren’t a professional athlete, would sleep in for as long as humanly possible. As the weeks start to run together and Viktor’s time in Hasetsu wears on, he becomes Yuuri’s alarm clock, knocking at the screen door each morning and entering anyway, dragging Yuuri to his feet if need be, twirling him by the shoulders down the corridor and to the bathroom—he always wakes up after a shower.

This morning, though, Viktor is still in bed when he hears footsteps coming towards his room, and then a tentative knock at the door. He doesn’t think much of it, but then the knocking gets more urgent, and Viktor reluctantly emerges from his cocoon of blankets, puts on some clothes, and stumbles to the door. When he slides it open, Yuuri is standing there, bouncing on his heels and clutching his laptop to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling over.

For all Viktor knows, it is. He rubs at his eyes. “Yuuri—?”

“Assignments come out today,” Yuuri says rapidly. “Sorry for waking you. I know it’s early. Can I come in?”

“Nervous?” Viktor asks.

“Yeah, cripplingly,” Yuuri says, like it’s nothing.

He slips into the room and closes the door behind him. The sun is rising, and Viktor stands uselessly in one place, his attention caught between the yellowish sky and Yuuri, settling himself on Viktor’s bed and opening up his laptop.

The moment passes on its own, and Viktor goes to sit beside Yuuri. “This is the first time in over ten years I’ve been waiting on the assignments for someone else.”

He doesn’t say, _Has it already been that long since I arrived in Hasetsu?_

“You must miss it,” Yuuri says. “Ah, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all.”

“I didn’t want to do this alone.”

“I understand,” Viktor says. “When will the assignments be out?”

“Any moment now,” Yuuri says. He leans back against the headboard of the bed and sighs, his eyes shutting. “Are you sure you’re fine with this? I hate to think of myself as someone who took you away from skating.”

Viktor huffs at that. “Then it’s about you, not me. I love—coaching you, Yuuri. I love _being_ with you. Don’t try to make me feel guilty for that.”

“Then, I’ll be reviled.” Yuuri grins, turning to Viktor, his laptop forgotten. “You be the playboy, and I’ll be the temptress, stealing you from the world.”

“I’m not a playboy!” Viktor protests. “I—”

Yuuri sits up on his knees, leaning right into Viktor’s space. “You… ? Why don’t you tell me about all your past lovers, Viktor?”

Viktor wants to be the one asking this question, prising all too eagerly into the corners of Yuuri’s life that he keeps hidden. He wants to, _badly_ , turn it around. For starters, who taught Yuuri how to flirt? Could they perhaps give Viktor—27 and never gone steady with anyone—some pointers? And—although it’s not something Viktor would ever say it loud—is there anyone he needs to be jealous of?

Instead, he’s blinking at Yuuri like a startled deer, and he manages a gasped, “No comment!”

“It’s just that,” Yuuri begins, “you’re always, you know, flirting with journalists and competitors and stuff, winking at the camera, so I thought maybe you’d have some stories to tell. And…”

“And?” Now that Viktor has recovered, he has the upper hand again. He shuffles a little closer to Yuuri. “And what?”

Yuuri shrugs, evidently trying to pretend that it’s nothing. “And I need to know who to be jealous of.”

Viktor reels back like Yuuri’s punched him directly in the gut and knocked all the wind out of him. This is all he needs. The thought that Yuuri would get jealous of people he’s been with is enough to keep Viktor warm and dry for the next five years. Maybe longer. God, he’s possessive. They’re not even dating and Viktor wants the name and number of everyone who’s so much as looked in Yuuri’s direction so he can call them and tell them to back off.

“Is that weird?” Yuuri says, wincing. “I don’t want to make things weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Viktor says. He clears his throat. “I feel the same.”

Yuuri swallows. Viktor’s eyes follow his Adam’s apple as it bobs up then down. “Oh. Um, that’s good, I—”

His laptop dings.

“The assignments!”

Viktor crowds over Yuuri’s shoulder, reading his email. The thing about assignments is they’re never good news or bad news, they’re just _news_ , and every skater Viktor knows has been able to rest easier once they’re out. Still, that doesn’t prepare him for the way Yuuri lets out a gust of air and slumps back against Viktor’s shoulder, his head tilting backwards and his eyes towards the ceiling.

The thing is that assignments _can_ be bad news, when you’re running away from home and there, on the laptop screen, is the pattern of your demise.

“Rostelecom, huh,” Viktor says.

“And Cup of China,” Yuuri says.

Yes, Viktor had read that too, but it’s the Rostelecom Cup that sticks with him, hosted in Moscow and so close to his home in Saint Petersburg. To distract himself, he wraps an arm around Yuuri’s waist and pulls him against his side.

Yuuri settles like it’s where he belongs. “I’ve never been to Moscow before,” he says. “You’ll have to show me around.”

“Of course,” Viktor says. “And Beijing? Have you been there?”

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, “Only once, and not for long. We can be tourists together.”

Viktor would respond, but he’s too distracted by the way Yuuri’s hair brushes against his neck. He takes a deep breath. Beijing is before Moscow. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Yuuri says softly.

Then, his head lolls even further back, and he falls asleep against Viktor. Viktor relaxes against the bed’s headboard. For now, this is enough of a distraction.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _assignments are out! off to beijing soon for my debut as @ykatsuki’s coach. yes, he signs autographs ;-)_

 

* * *

 

“I have a dilemma.”

Viktor is lying on the beach, sunning himself, when Yuuri appears in his shadow. This is their afternoon off. Yuuri is not meant to have dilemmas on their afternoon off.

“What is it?” Viktor asks anyway.

“I’ve been invited by the JSF to perform an exhibition skate at the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship,” Yuuri says. “It’s a regional competition for low-seeded skaters, leading up to selection for official ISU events. I don’t have to compete because… uh, somehow I’m the top-seeded men’s singles skater… but since I’m from Kyushu, they asked me.”

“Well that’s wonderful news, Yuuri!” Viktor says. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wrap his head around the self-deprecating way Yuuri refuses to believe he’s number one in the country, let alone the world. “I don’t understand how it’s a dilemma.”

Yuuri sighs. He kneels on the beach towel beside Viktor’s legs. “I haven’t prepared an exhibition skate for the season yet. I should’ve asked you about it earlier, but I guess I thought…”

Viktor sits up, shuffling closer to Yuuri. “You thought… ?”

“I never think I’ll do well enough to be asked to do an exhibition,” Yuuri says. “I don’t mean to say anything about your coaching! I mean—”

“Yuuri, by now I know you don’t think very highly of your own abilities.” Viktor shakes his head. “We can talk about that some other time. For now, you need to pick some music for your exhibition skate—you know I’d be more than happy to choreograph something for you.”

“There’s no time,” Yuuri says. “It’s in two weeks.”

Viktor’s attention drifts out to sea, watching waves crash against the shore. He’s sure there’s some old routine Yuuri can resurrect, and he can use his costume for the free skate that arrived last week from Viktor’s designer back in Russia, but all this recycling… it doesn’t seem sufficient. Unless—

“ _Stay Close To Me_ ,” Viktor says.

Yuuri blushes as his mouth turns up at the corners into a confused and cautious smile, his brows furrowed. “I’m already pretty close to you, Viktor. Unless you want me closer… ?”

Without warning, Yuuri lifts one leg over both of Viktor’s and straddles him, leaning right up into his personal space. Personal space, as a concept, is something Viktor thinks is vastly overrated.

“As much as I don’t object to having you closer,” Viktor says, “I was talking about my routine, the one you skated in that video. Do you remember it?”

Yuuri sits back on Viktor’s calves, resting his hands on Viktor’s thighs. “Remember it? I used it as a warm-up when I was still training in Detroit. I know it backwards. But I can’t just skate someone else’s routine for my exhibition.”

“Yes, you can,” Viktor says. “I give you permission. Anyway, I’m retired. _Stay Close To Me_ is yours now.”

There’s an awkward silence filled only by a seagull calling out somewhere not too far away—it catches Viktor’s eyes, and when he looks back at Yuuri, there are tears slowly tracking down his face.

“Oh, Yuuri, no—”

“It’s always going to be yours, Viktor,” Yuuri says, his voice heavy. “You can’t give it to me. It’ll never be—Viktor, I can’t—”

Viktor reaches out and brushes his thumb across Yuuri’s cheek, wiping away some of the tears. “Think of it like a loan, then. You’re borrowing the routine, just for this season. It’s no more than another piece of choreography I’ve done for you. Yuuri, darling, don’t cry!”

“I can’t help it,” Yuuri says, but he does laugh at that. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m borrowing it. And I can wear my free skate costume.”

“Right,” Viktor says. “You have nothing to worry about. You perform that routine better than I ever did.”

Unfortunately for Viktor and his big mouth, that sets Yuuri off crying again. In between sobs, he says, “ _Viktor_ , I can’t even land a quad flip!”

“I was talking about performance, not the technical component,” Viktor tries. He makes it worse. He tries again: “You can learn a quad flip; you’re good enough to pick it up in two weeks! Or you can replace it with a triple; the performance won’t suffer at all. You know that.”

“I guess I could make it a triple,” Yuuri says, wiping at his eyes. “That’s what I did in the video, anyway.”

“Right!” Viktor says. He takes Yuuri’s wrists in his hands. “You could get up there naked and skate in a circle for four minutes and it would still be the best exhibition skate anyone’s ever done. Show them something beautiful instead?”

Yuuri laughs, burying his head at the juncture between Viktor’s neck and shoulder. “If I skated naked in a circle for four minutes you’d still think it was beautiful.”

“True,” Viktor says, shrugging.

“Well, you know what we have to do now,” Yuuri says.

Viktor humours him. “What?”

“No more afternoons off. You have to teach me the quad flip.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor associates Fukuoka with its airport, a perpetual stopover en route to competitions, and he associates it with _being_ a competitor, making his way to the rink with Yakov by his side and a gold medal in front of him. Now, he’s here as a coach, wandering the city streets to make his way from the train station to the hotel. It’s like looking at his old life through a one-sided mirror.

Their hotel is unassuming—Yuuri had picked it out as somewhere he’d stayed before—and Viktor dawdles as he walks into the lobby, like he’s somehow putting off the inevitable.

He waits for Yuuri to go up to the receptionist.

“Um,” Yuuri says.

“The thing is,” Viktor says lightly, “I’m _so_ scatterbrained, I totally forgot to book myself a room!” He laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “I’ll just have to stay with y—”

“Viktor, I thought you were booking our room,” Yuuri says. “You had it open on your phone.”

“You mean neither of us… ?”

Yuuri looks over to the receptionist’s desk and back at Viktor, dread in his eyes. “We are idiots. We should’ve _talked_ about this. God, I’m stupid.”

The thing is, Viktor very deliberately “forgot” to book a room, because his mind was caught on the romantic idea of arriving, Yuuri realising that Viktor had forgotten to book and checking them into the room they would have to share, and the two of them forced to feign reluctance and share a bed for the night. It would be just like that night when they were both a little drunk and they’d slept side-by-side. He even left his phone open on the booking page for a room with a queen bed, hoping Yuuri would see it and be inspired.

Then his mind rewinds and catches on something Yuuri said: “our room.” With a queen bed. Viktor didn’t need to pull an elaborate trick to make this happen. He could have _asked_.

“I’m the stupid one, Yuuri,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says, even though it’s clearly not. “We can work something out.”

In the end it comes down to good luck—the hotel has a couple of rooms free, but they’re all single rooms. And the hotel won’t let two of them stay in one room. Viktor is downcast all the way to the lift. Yuuri tries to reassure him, keeping a hand wrapped around his arm all the way up to the fifth floor, where both rooms are, but it doesn’t work. Viktor is inconsolate. This is by far the worst thing he’s ever done, and that’s including that time he nearly flew back to Russia because Yuuri lost a competition.

They stop outside the first door, to Viktor’s room.

“You know,” Yuuri says, “they won’t know if we never use the other key.”

Viktor lights up like Yuuri’s flicked a switch. He unlocks the door with haste and pushes it open, leaning back against the door and throwing out a hand like a guide, allowing Yuuri to pass. Yuuri laughs—he shuts his eyes when he laughs, when he’s _really_ amused; Viktor loves it—and pushes past, his suitcase rolling behind him.

“After you,” Viktor says, although Yuuri is already halfway into the room.

“This is all we really need,” Yuuri says.

He’s taking off his coat—before he can get too comfortable, Viktor runs at him and tackles him to the bed. Yuuri lets out an indignant squawk and rolls onto his side, leaving Viktor to follow, his arms still around Yuuri. They collapse like that. Next time, Viktor decides, he’ll make sure he’s the little spoon. He feels like he’s run a marathon. Yuuri doesn’t push him away.

“This is all I’ll ever need,” Viktor says.

Yuuri seems to stiffen in Viktor’s arms. “You’re—”

“—all I need,” Viktor finishes. “Yuuri, I—”

Yuuri’s phone rings in his back pocket. In any other situation, Viktor would be all too happy to have something vibrating between him and Yuuri, but this is just cruel. Yuuri scrambles to sit up, fumbling his phone as he reaches to see who’s calling.

“Oh, shit,” Yuuri says, “I’d better take this. Hello?”

The call isn’t on speaker but Viktor can hear exuberant yelling on the other end. Yuuri answers in Japanese, and although he looks exasperated, he manages to get through the conversation well enough, completely ignoring poor Viktor, who he’s left all to his own devices—which means that, while Yuuri’s on the phone, Viktor shifts so that he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. This is dialect that Yuuri’s talking, but it’s fast enough that Viktor only catches about one word in twenty.

When Yuuri’s done, Viktor sits back up and rests his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Who was that?”

“Minami,” Yuuri says. “He’s one of the skaters competing in the championships. We met at Nationals. I think he’s a…”

Yuuri pauses, pursing his lips.

“A _fan_.”

“Cute,” Viktor says. He reaches for Yuuri’s hair and picks out a bundle of strands, twirling them around his fingers. “What did he want?”

Yuuri makes a face. “He wants me to come out for dinner with him and the other skaters.”

“As much as I want you to stay in with me,” Viktor says, “you should go. Don’t look so down about it! Take it from my experience—your fame is worth nothing if you don’t respect your fans.”

“I was worried you would say something like that,” Yuuri says. He gently prises Viktor’s fingers out of his hair. “Alright. I’ll go.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Viktor says.

He knows that look on Yuuri’s face—there’s a part of him, Viktor thinks, that will never quite comprehend how much people admire him. It’s selfish, but if Viktor could accomplish just one thing as Yuuri’s coach, it would be for Yuuri to look back at Viktor and see that admiration in all its glory.

“Okay, well, you have to let go of me, so I can choose something nice to wear.” Yuuri puts one finger to his lips, mimicking the way Viktor thinks. He must know he’s doing it. He adds, “But not _too_ nice. I don’t want to make you jealous of Minami and the others.”

“You know me so well,” Viktor says.

He lies back down, watching as Yuuri gets up and rifles through his suitcase. Viktor doesn’t need to go for the big victory tonight—they’re staying in the same room, and that’s better than he deserves after that debacle with the booking. There’s plenty of time for the other things on his mind.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is—inexplicably, but not surprisingly—nervous. It’s the first time Viktor’s seen him wearing his free skate costume, deep navy blue and jewelled like a fireworks display, and he looks unbelievable. To think that Viktor is going to be seeing _Stay Close To Me_ in these colours, in this lighting… the thought sets him on edge in the best way possible.

“Talk me through it,” Viktor says.

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Fair enough.”

But then there’s nothing to say, and Viktor doesn’t like this, doesn’t like not knowing what to do. He watches as Yuuri shifts his weight from foot to foot. There’s a marked difference between the performer Yuuri Katsuki who Viktor met in passing at last year’s Grand Prix Final, with his gelled-back hair and beautiful poise, and the off-season Yuuri Katsuki who Viktor has had the absolute honour to get to know in the last few months, thick glasses and messy hair and more nerve endings than things to set them off.

The Yuuri who Viktor fell in love with has, until now, not been the performer, the spectre of Viktor’s last defeat. Seeing Yuuri now—having this confirmation this is the same person, glasses sitting skewed and a few hairs flying loose into his eyes—goes some way to reconciling Viktor’s two images of him. Yuuri the performer is all those things: he is messy and nervous and he laughs the same way he does when he’s drunk, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Viktor doesn’t think it’s possible for him to fall any deeper, but he wouldn’t put it past Yuuri to surprise him.

“Tell me something for good luck,” Yuuri says.

Viktor reaches up and brushes a few of those wayward hairs back into place. “I’m not going to kiss you in front of all these cameras.”

“I said _tell_ me,” Yuuri huffs. “Have you never—have you really never been nervous before performing?”

“Exhibition states were never stressful for me,” Viktor says, shrugging.

“Of course.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Viktor says. “I might not get nervous, but I’ve got other faults!”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Like what? You’re the top figure skater in the world, you speak three and a half languages, you’re on magazine covers and bedroom walls, and none of that makes you nervous at all.”

“Three and about five halves, actually, but let’s not focus on the details,” Viktor says. He counts off on his fingers: “I can’t drive, I’ve never been in a relationship, I speak without thinking, I— _bedroom walls_ , Yuuri? Is that where those blu-tack stains came from?”

“Oh, shut up,” Yuuri says, going so red it shows under his foundation.

Viktor can’t hold back his grin. The absurd part of it is, he _would_ kiss Yuuri in front of all the cameras. He’d kiss Yuuri in front of the whole world, to make it perfectly clear where the two of them stand—or, where the two of them will ideally stand, once Viktor gets around to telling Yuuri that he’s in love with him.

“So cute,” he says. “Yuuri, Yuuri… I’ll tell you something to motivate you. This is your debut televised performance with me as your coach. You wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression, would you? I want people to know how much I’ve done for you.”

Yuuri leaps back like a startled deer. “Viktor, you—”

“Besides, they’ve probably all seen the video of you skating this routine,” Viktor continues. “Show them how far you’ve come, Yuuri.”

“Right,” Yuuri says, gulping. “Okay. Show them how far I’ve come.”

“This isn’t like _Eros_. You need the audience to feel your longing, not sit there wanting to—”

Viktor is cut off by a voice over the rink’s speakers, in a level of Japanese that he can just about understand: “And now, an exhibition by Japan’s top male figure skater and a local boy from Kyushu, Katsuki Yuuri, performing _Stay Close To Me_!” Part of Viktor is annoyed that they didn’t mention Yuuri’s new coach, but the rest of him knows that Yuuri is more than good enough to do this on his own.

“Well, that’s me,” Yuuri says, and he laughs nervously. He takes his glasses off and hands them to Viktor. “Don’t go easy on me just because it’s an exhibition.”

“You want me to critique this?”

Yuuri nods, once, brusquely. “It’s still your routine, Viktor.”

And then he’s gone, skating out onto the ice. As the first strains of music come in like a crashing wave, Viktor hangs Yuuri’s glasses off the edge of his suit jacket pocket, and allows himself to drown in Yuuri’s performance.

 

* * *

 

A week after the regional championships, Yuuri is called away again—this time to Tokyo, for the JSF’s pre-season press conference. This time, Viktor stays back at the resort, with a promise to look after Vicchan and help out around the place if he’s asked. He isn’t asked, but the offer remains open anyway.

With nothing to do and no Yuuri to keep him company, Viktor becomes listless. Yuuri is only in Tokyo for a day, and he’ll be back around one in the morning, but Viktor has a notoriously low threshold for loneliness, and being around Vicchan so much only makes him miss Makkachin, his old cure for the blues. Still, Vicchan is excellent company, and Viktor takes him around to the Nishigoris’ place, plays with the triplets for a little while, and then wanders down by the beach for almost an hour, throwing sticks for Vicchan to catch and running with him into the waves.

“You’re my namesake,” Viktor tells Vicchan on the walk back to the resort, “so it’s only natural you’re so handsome. Where do you get your hair done?”

Vicchan looks up at him and woofs eagerly.

“I see,” Viktor says. “Fascinating. I’ll have to try it out sometime.”

In response, Vicchan runs ahead, and Viktor lets his leash slip since they’re so near home. He wishes he had the energy to catch up, only keeping an eye on Vicchan as he jumps up the front steps.

They’re greeted by Mari. “Have a nice walk?” she asks.

Viktor nods. “We did. Little Viktor is wonderful company.”

“You know, usually people would save something like ‘Little Viktor' for their—” Mari cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

It’s easy to forget that Viktor is closer to Mari’s age than Yuuri’s. She always seems so mature, stalking around the resort and giving Viktor her imposing big sister stares. But she’s only thirty—never mind that every birthday closer to thirty terrifies Viktor that little bit more—and when they share a laugh, she’s just as young as Viktor.

“You’re the one who used to call me ‘Big Viktor,’ apparently,” Viktor says. “So it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take responsibility,” Mari says. “Don’t go too far, yeah? Yuuri’s press conference is going to be on in a few minutes.”

Viktor checks his watch, startled. “Of course! Do you think I’ll have time to get changed and get something to eat before it starts?”

“Yuuri won’t be talking first, so you’ll have plenty of time,” Mari says.

“Great. I’ll try not to be long.”

Viktor leaves Vicchan with one last ruffle and dashes through the resort to his bedroom, where he quickly throws off his sweaty clothes and puts on the olive green pyjamas that came with his room and board and have very quickly become his favourites. He sprays himself with a liberal amount of deodorant to make up for the shower he ought to be having and hurries back down to the front bar.

The Nishigoris are there, and a few other people Viktor recognises from around town.

“Just in time,” Mari says as Viktor takes a seat next to her. “Mum made you katsudon for dinner.”

Hiroko Katsuki is a national treasure. Viktor reaches across to thank her, squeezing her hand, and she lights up like a Christmas tree. Her English is getting better, for the express purpose of communicating with Viktor. “You are _so_ good to me, Vicchan!” she says. “I’m always happy to cook for you.”

“No, you’re good to me,” Viktor says.

Mari says something to Hiroko in Japanese, which Viktor can puzzle out mainly from context: “Stop calling him Vicchan, he’ll get confused.”

“I don’t mind,” Viktor says, his Japanese slow and careful. “It’s cute.”

“You better be careful,” Mari says, back English. She gives Viktor an amused smirk. “She already thinks of you as part of the family. When you’re her son-in-law, you’ll never be able to escape.”

Viktor is pretty sure he’s blushing. Being part of the family is one thing—what he wouldn’t give to be Hiroko’s son-in-law! But it’s much too soon for him to be thinking about such things, especially since he still hasn’t told Yuuri how he feels. He’s not even entirely sure how Yuuri feels. Sure, Yuuri is flirty, but does that translate to something serious the way it does for Viktor?

The press conference on the TV is background noise to Viktor’s roaring mind. _Son-in-law_. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t stop. A spring wedding, after the competitive season is over. Swapping out all his gold medals for a gold ring. On the beach in Hasetsu, or by the castle, or in Saint Petersburg, by the harbour, or both, twice, one celebration for each of them.

He’s getting very far ahead of himself.

“Oh,” Mari says, nudging Viktor, “Yuuri’s coming up. I’ll translate afterwards.”

“My Japanese is getting better,” Viktor says defensively.

“Your Saga dialect is getting better,” Mari corrects. “This is the JSF, so Yuuri’s going to be doing his best to speak the kind of Japanese they learn in international schools. At this point, his English is almost better than his…”

She trails off as Yuuri takes up the microphone, clearing his throat.

As Mari predicted, Viktor doesn’t understand a word of it. Yuuri is a passionate speaker—Viktor isn’t sure he’s ever heard him sound so vehement about something—and it’s easy to get lost in his words. And his eyes. Yuuri has such lovely eyes. They would stand out more if Yuuri was wearing a different sort of tie. It’s a very ugly tie. Viktor distracts himself from his complete and utter lack of comprehension by imagining a bonfire on the beach, the two of them and Vicchan standing at a safe distance as Viktor throws the tie into the flames.

When Yuuri is done, the audience at the press conference are in a stunned silence, but the audience around Viktor breaks into chatter. He chances a glance at Hiroko, who’s wiping tears out of her eyes.

“Oh, wow,” Mari says.

“What did he say?” Viktor presses. “You said you’d translate!”

Mari’s eyes are wide. “Um, give me a moment. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Me neither,” Viktor says. Winking, he adds, “I wish I understood what he meant… !”

Sighing, Mari says, “I’m sure it’s nothing new to you. The kind of thing he’s probably said a thousand times.”

“Yuuri has said nothing a thousand times,” Viktor says. Yuuri is a man of few words. Mari should know this.

“Yeah, but, given the way the two of you look at each other, I’m pretty sure you know how much he loves you.”

“He—”

Viktor thinks back over Yuuri’s speech. He knows the word for love. Why wasn’t he paying attention? Surely Yuuri didn’t say it in as many words? Maybe Mari’s reading too much into it. Yeah. That’s all it is.

“ _Viktor’s the first person I’ve ever wanted to hold onto_ ,” Mari says, her tone affectionately mocking. “ _I don’t have a name for that feeling, but I’ve decided to call it ‘love.’_ That’s his theme for the season. Love.”

“He didn’t tell me that,” Viktor says, latching onto the only part of what Mari said that makes sense to him. “His theme… I should’ve asked him sooner.”

“Yeah, it was a bit of a surprise for me too,” Mari says. She frowns. “It’s not nice to hear second-hand that your little brother doesn’t think of you as anywhere near as important as his flashy new foreign boyfriend. Sorry—no offence, Viktor, but Yuuri is not good at choosing his words.”

Viktor is not Yuuri’s boyfriend, but hearing it phrased like that is so pleasing to his ears that he doesn’t correct Mari. “I’ll talk to him about it,” is all he says.

Mari shrugs. “It’s okay. He’ll realise what he said, and he’ll apologise. That’s just how Yuuri is.”

She looks Viktor up and down. It makes him feel very vulnerable. At last, she smiles.

“That’s why we love him.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a balmy summer night and there’s enough of a breeze for Viktor to feel perfectly comfortable as he sets out for the train station. He wanted to take Vicchan too, but Vicchan was comfortably asleep on his pallet by the door, and Viktor didn’t dare disturb him.

The streets of Hasetsu are dark—there are nowhere near enough street lamps for the way the sun so comprehensively deserts this town—so Viktor walks by the light of his phone, and he almost gets lost on his way to the train station. It’s not far, though, and the station is a landmark, still lit up and waiting for the last train from Tokyo to come in.

Viktor waits outside, breathing in the fresh air, immersing himself in the gentle night. Before he came to Hasetsu, it had been so long since he was somewhere with air this clean, leaves this green. His life had been sorely lacking in simplicity—simplicity wasn’t something he’d even known he was lacking, surrounding himself with designer clothes and luxury goods. It’s a bit of a cliché, _getting away from it all_ , but it rings eerily true for Viktor as he is now. Maybe it wasn’t the designer clothes, a facet of the lifestyle which he probably couldn’t be convinced to give up, but the business. The competitions, the exhibitions, the photoshoots, the interviews, all the other professional trappings of a successful career as the international face of figure skating.

And what does it all mean? It means that people recognise Viktor almost everywhere he goes, that he has fans who adore him, but it also means that there’s never a quiet moment, and that nobody can see him without all of those trappings. Here in Hasetsu, though, there’s only one name in figure skating that matters, and that’s _Katsuki Yuuri_ , the name on all those posters, the first Japanese characters Viktor had learnt to read. To everyone here, Viktor is not much more than an eccentric tourist. Not _the_ Viktor Nikiforov, just—

“Viktor?”

Yuuri is still in his suit, although he’s loosened that ugly tie around his neck, and the whole thing is a little incongruous with the backpack over his shoulders and buckled up around his middle.

“You came,” Yuuri says.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Viktor says. “And it’s not safe for you to walk home on your own.”

“Then it wasn’t safe for you to walk here alone,” Yuuri counters. “Oh, god—were you watching the press conference?”

“Every second of it, and Yuuri, your _tie_ —”

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri covers his face with his hands. “I really screwed up, didn’t I? I was so embarrassing. I always run my mouth off when someone puts me on the spot, and to be honest, I hadn’t really prepared what I was going to say.”

Viktor pulls Yuuri’s hand off his face, and if their fingers end up linked, then that’s not Viktor’s fault, not at all.

“It was a beautiful speech,” Viktor says. Yuuri gives him a suspicious look, so Viktor adds, “Well, everyone was quite stunned, and Mari translated a little bit for me. It was…”

“I shouldn’t have said _any_ of that,” Yuuri says. “Embarrassing. I’m an embarrassment.”

In light of this sentiment, Viktor debates how much to say. While he thinks, he lets go of one of Yuuri’s hands and lets the the other one swing between them as they begin the walk back to the resort.

Eventually, Viktor finds his words. “I’m glad you said it. I feel the same way. Yuuri, I—you’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to hold onto, too.”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose. “Is that how Mari translated it? It sounds even cheesier in English.”

“I don’t have a name for that feeling,” Viktor goes on—and here he smiles a little cruelly—“but I’ve decided to make it my theme for the season.”

“Oh, stop,” Yuuri says, looking very purposefully in the other direction. “Be serious.”

“Okay, but only for a few minutes at a time,” Viktor says. “I… was thinking about your exhibition skate, actually.”

“You never did give me that critique,” Yuuri says.

Viktor moves a little closer. It’s not a very wide pavement. “Right,” he says. “Of course, it was technically brilliant, but I still think you should go for the quad flip.”

Yuuri hums, noncommittal.

“I was thinking about what you said, that it’s not your routine, but mine,” Viktor goes on, “and I think that’s only half right. By now, it belongs to both of us. And I know it’s a song about longing, but you looked so _lonely_ , Yuuri, and while I was watching, all I could think was, _I want to join him out there_.”

“By all means, skate all of my exhibitions this season for me,” Yuuri says. “It would be a weight off my shoulders.”

Very purposefully, Viktor bumps his shoulder against Yuuri’s. “That’s not what I’m getting at.”

“What, you want it to be a pair skate?” Yuuri says. He laughs. “Come on, Viktor.”

“I’m dead serious,” Viktor says. “You could lift me.”

Yuuri stops in his tracks. “No way! Please don’t joke around like this.”

“I could lift _you_ ,” Viktor says.

He lets go of Yuuri’s hand and grabs him around the waist. Yuuri lets out a noise—pitchy, halfway between a shout and a laugh—as Viktor attempts to sweep him off his feet. He doesn’t get very far, because Yuuri is wearing a backpack and it’s surprisingly heavy, but it works as a proof of concept. It works to show Yuuri that Viktor means what he says.

“You _are_ serious,” Yuuri says. “No singles skater has ever done a pair skate for their exhibition. It would certainly break tradition. I haven’t done pairs skating since I was twelve and Yuuko and I would practise it together.”

“I haven’t done it ever,” Viktor says, “but how hard could it be?”

“Says the four time world champion.”

“It would make history.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes at Viktor for a long moment, and then he shakes off the expression, keeps walking. It’s not far from the resort now. Yuuri seems determined not to answer, so Viktor doesn’t push him into a conversation he won’t be comfortable having. He doesn’t try to hold Yuuri’s hand again and he definitely doesn’t try to lift him again. He _does_ think about Yuuri lifting _him_ , fashioning the mental imagine into something vivid enough to keep him occupied for days.

When they get back to the resort, Yuuri pauses at the door to pat Vicchan. It’s quiet. Everyone must be asleep. Viktor’s tired legs yearn for the hot springs, but his tired mind tells him to go straight to bed.

He leans against the doorframe, watching Yuuri. “Stay in my room tonight?”

Yuuri looks up. He blinks. “I—yeah. Okay. We can talk about the pair skate tomorrow.”

“I’ll wake you up early,” Viktor warns. “We’ll have to work harder than ever.”

“I’ll match you step for step,” Yuuri says. “I meant what I said in the press conference, you know.”

Something warm blossoms in Viktor’s chest. “Tell me again?”

Yuuri gives him an innocent smile. “If you’re good.”

Of course—for Yuuri, Viktor will be the _best_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's so little actual flirting in yoi canon that i felt it was my duty to write a whole chapter of it. a whole novel of it, eventually. i promise this fic has more plot than the endless What Are We but i just love writing it so much, y'know?


	6. Episode 6

“Do you think you could lift me?” Viktor asks.

They’re in Minako’s studio, because there’s always the chance that there’ll be other people hanging around the rink during the day, and Viktor is impatient to work on this. It doesn’t matter how many times Yuuri tells him that he needs to keep working on his free skate, Viktor reminds him that it’s just one morning, and what if he has to perform his exhibition skate at the Cup of China? Is he going to do it alone again? So Yuuri relents.

He does not relent to this. “I’d break my arms.”

“You could try,” Viktor says.

Yuuri glances between him and the barre, the wooden floor. “It would be easier on the ice, with more traction behind my movement.”

“I agree,” Viktor says, “but I think you should try now, anyway.”

“You’re not going to give up until I try, are you?” Yuuri deadpans.

Viktor shrugs. He cocks one eyebrow, challenging.

“ _Fine_.”

Yuuri extends his arms. Viktor wants nothing more than to hug him, but—

“You have to come right up close so I can grab you by the waist. I think that’s the only way I’ll be able to do it.”

—this is even better.

Viktor steps close to Yuuri so that they’re chest to chest. Like this, Yuuri’s eyes come up to Viktor’s mouth, and Viktor is at the perfect vantage point to look down and watch the way Yuuri’s gaze flickers across his lips. Maybe Viktor would read more into it if he wasn’t so distracted by all the parts of their bodies that have never been in such close contact before. They sleep in the same bed and they’ve never been this close.

“Brace yourself,” Yuuri says.

Viktor can feel Yuuri’s breath against his neck. He almost shivers. He feels like he’s never been touched before, which is not true, but—it’s been a while since he was last touched like _this_.

There’s a pause, and then Yuuri’s arms clasp around his waist, and he lifts. Viktor makes himself light—not that he needs to, because Yuuri has strong arms, probably from the pole dancing. Yuuri can’t lift him very high, but it’s exhilarating, the way Viktor’s feet sweep up from the ground, the air rushing around him, the sensation of seeing the world from a different angle.

All too soon, Yuuri lets him down. “My arms…”

“It would definitely be easier on the ice,” Viktor says, agreeing retroactively.

“Well, why don’t you try lifting me?” Yuuri suggests. “And properly. Not like I did.”

“From behind?”

Yuuri nods, just once. He’s nervous. Viktor wishes he could say something to help, but from experience he thinks he’d probably end up putting his foot in it.

Silently, he walks around so that he’s standing behind Yuuri and clasps him around the waist. Left leg extended back to give him some leverage, right leg bent at the knee, Viktor holds tight, and lifts.

“Oh,” Yuuri breathes. “This is—you’re—”

Viktor lets Yuuri down gently, and Yuuri turns to face him. Unusually forward, he grabs Viktor by the front of his shirt.

“That was amazing! You’re so strong! Viktor, let’s try it again. I’m so sorry I doubted you—I can’t wait to try this on the ice. As a proper pair skate! We’re going to be so amazing! I’m—sorry, I shouldn’t gush, I—”

He loosens his grip, pulling back, so Viktor responds by wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, bringing him closer still for a hug. Like this, Viktor can shut his eyes and lose himself in the smell of Yuuri’s shampoo. He can be as embarrassingly in love as he likes within the privacy of his own mind.

It’s easy for Viktor to forget that Yuuri is his fan, as well as his protégé. That Yuuri’s skating has always had hints of Viktor’s in it, even before Viktor became his coach.

“You never need to apologise,” Viktor says. “I’m happy that you’re as excited as I am.”

“Let’s try again?” Yuuri’s voice comes out very quietly. “If you want to.”

“I want nothing more,” Viktor says. He does it reluctantly but he does force himself to break away from Yuuri, holding his arms out, ready to try again. “Turn around!”

They practise the lift over and over until it feels like second nature. The rest of the routine is easy enough for Viktor to turn into a pair skate, and with each iteration, he starts to feel more intuitive about where to put the lifts, too. After they’ve got it down, he gets another idea.

“How much do you trust me, Yuuri?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Yuuri splutters halfway through a sip from his water bottle. “I—of course I trust you, Viktor.”

Viktor puts a finger to his lips. “Do you trust me to spin you mid-air?” Yuuri looks like he’s about to start panicking, so Viktor hastily adds, “Just half a rotation! So that when you land, you’re facing me.”

Yuuri takes his time to answer, which Viktor would never begrudge him. “The least we can do is try.”

The first few times, they don’t manage the spin. Yuuri is holding back, and Viktor is trying to figure out where his hands should go, because all he really wants is for them to be everywhere at once. It would be easier on the ice, if they were going somewhere rather than staying in the same spot. But when it finally does happen it’s like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Viktor gives Yuuri just the right amount of momentum for him to spin mid-air. Instead of landing on his feet, though, Yuuri falls forward, and Viktor lurches backwards, catching him just in time.

Viktor’s ears are ringing. It’s very quiet in the studio all of a sudden. Is it getting warmer too? They stay like that, a paused freeze-frame, Yuuri’s legs wrapped around Viktor’s waist and crossed over themselves behind. Viktor can see it in the mirror along the opposite wall. He can see his arms too, clasped around the small of Yuuri’s back, clinging on for dear life, and Yuuri’s arms flung over his shoulders. Not that he’s looking that way for long. He and Yuuri are face-to-face, their noses a millimetre from brushing, and it wouldn’t take much to fashion that distance into nothing at all and kiss Yuuri senseless.

It almost happens, too.

The door to the studio swings open. Viktor snaps his neck around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He can feel the way Yuuri twists his whole body to look, but. They’re still standing like that.

“Oops,” Minako says. “Sorry for interrupting. I was about to go and make lunch. Do you two want anything?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Viktor says, at the same time as Yuuri says, “No, we’re fine!”

They turn to look at each other again.

“Oh—”

“It’s okay, we’ll eat here,” Yuuri says.

“Okay,” Viktor says. “Just a little more practice, then.”

When he looks back to the door, it’s closed, and Minako is gone. Carefully, Viktor lets Yuuri back down. He’s about to suggest going over the step sequence one more time before lunch, but there’s this determined gleam in Yuuri’s eyes, and he gets in first.

“Again.”

 

* * *

 

The beach is easily Viktor’s favourite place in Hasetsu. Not just because it reminds him of home—no, this beach has grown to be a sacred place in its own right, somewhere that makes Viktor feel reverent and very, very small.

It’s the night before he and Yuuri are due to leave for Beijing. Viktor had been the worst kind of hypocrite, forcing Yuuri to go to bed early, reversing their usual routine. And all so he could do this, walk down to the beach in the dark and imagine the high tide sweeping him away. The water barely glistens in the moonlight, no beacons out at sea to leave trails, and the only juncture is where the white sea foam divides the fine sand and the black waves, dark enough to bleed into the sky.

Sometimes it all feels like a dream. That world champion Viktor Nikiforov is retired, and coaching; that he’s _met someone_ , against all odds, and he’s found out how he wants to spend the rest of his life. With Yuuri.

He wonders if he only feels this way because Hasetsu exists outside time itself. When they’re in Beijing, that’ll be the real test of how strong it holds together. And then—

Viktor keeps thinking about Russia, about taking Yuuri around Moscow and trying to pretend that it’s not hurting him. Because it will hurt. It’ll feel like rewinding all of the work he’s done to recalibrate himself over the last few months, adding weights to the careful balance he’s achieved.

He wonders if, while he’s there, he should stop by Saint Petersburg.

There are so many people he hasn’t seen since he left. Yakov and the other skaters, he’s talked to on the phone, but there’s Agata, who doesn’t need to look after the house anymore; there’s the couple and their newborn in the flat across from his; the old man who runs the grocery store two blocks away; that kid who always passes Viktor on his walk to the rink. If he went back to his old rink, to his flat, would he see them again? Would it be just like he never left?

And where— _where_ —does Yuuri fit into all of this?

A wave breaks against the beach and pushes the tide further in; Viktor takes a step back, his bare heels digging into the warm sand. Historically, he’s never spent much time thinking about the future. It was one season after the next, and in the in between he slept in on Sundays and spent the rest of his time training, because natural talent can only go so far without hard work holding its hand.

Now is not a good time to start. Viktor could wear himself down thinking about the _what ifs_ , or he could drag himself back into the moment and see where it takes him. Without hesitation, he rolls up the cuffs of his trousers and walks back into the water, wading only where it swirls around his ankles and no deeper, but if he closes his eyes in the pitch dark night he can imagine that he’s being pulled into greater depths.

His phone drags him out of the reverie. It’s a text from Yuuri on his Japanese SIM, where Yuuri’s contact details are saved under the name _my love♡_. If Yuuri ever saw Viktor’s phone, it would be embarrassing, but the only time they text is on the rare occasion when they’re apart, so it’s never come up.

The text reads: _where are you?_ Simple and to the point, as Yuuri often is. Each letter is like a sonnet to Viktor.

 _i’ll be home soon_ , Viktor replies, and _oh_ , when did he start thinking of Yu-topia as home?

He leans down to the water—one last farewell—running his fingers through the seafoam as a wave pushes against them. His fingers curl in on themselves, touching lightly against his palm. It feels like a sign. Of something. Viktor leaves the water to its own devices and tracks back through the sand to where his loafers are sitting—he opts to walk home barefoot and carry his shoes, sticky sand tracking off his wet feet as he avoids barbs in the tarmac.

Back at the resort, Yuuri is waiting in Viktor’s room. Maybe _waiting_ is a strong word. He’s asleep on the bed with his laptop sitting open and unattended dangerously close to the edge. Viktor shuts the laptop—wincing at the way it snaps closed, but Yuuri doesn’t stir—and puts it safely to one side.

“Ah, Yuuri,” he says, as loudly as he thinks he can get away with, “what tired you out so early, hmm?”

Yuuri, of course, does not respond. He’s lying diagonally on the bed. Viktor will either have to wake him up, or follow suit.

The choice is an easy one. Viktor is feeling indulgent—he leans in close and kisses Yuuri’s hair. Then, Yuuri shifts, only a little, but making room enough for Viktor to lie down at a slightly more sensible angle. He manages to fall asleep like that, easily.

 

* * *

 

Viktor has gotten appreciably better at booking hotel rooms. For Beijing, not only did he _remember_ to book, but he even consulted with Yuuri first! Yuuri hadn’t so much as blinked when Viktor made sure a double bed would be okay—it was—and Viktor had felt silly for being so nervous about it.

Now that they’re here, all the nerves are gone. Yuuri is tired from the flight, lying on the bed and scrolling his phone, and Viktor is restless, sitting upright. Most coaches don’t share rooms with their students, let alone beds. Viktor has mostly reconciled himself with the fact that he is not like other coaches.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Yuuri asks.

“I was going to,” Viktor says, “but Chris isn’t answering his phone.”

Yuuri goes a very bright shade of red. “Christophe—you—of course.”

“No need to be jealous, Yuuri,” Viktor teases. He leans over Yuuri, one hand resting on the bed just by his shoulder. “Chris and I go way back. I haven’t caught up with him since…”

It’s been almost a year since last year’s Grand Prix Final. Viktor cut ties with just about everyone he couldn’t see in person when he was in the funk of potential retirement, and once he moved to Hasetsu it was limited at best. Of all the people he’s let down, Chris might be chief among them.

“I’m not jealous,” Yuuri says, which they both know is a lie. He curls his fingers around Viktor’s wrist to prove it.

“Well? Why else did you ask?”

“Phichit wants to go out for hotpot tonight. You’re invited too.” Yuuri’s touch lingers for a second before he withdraws. “If you want to come. Celestino is going to be there, so it could get awkward.”

“For you or for me?” Viktor asks. He doesn’t mean to sound so pushy about it.

Yuuri reacts accordingly, flinching back. “Mostly for me,” he admits.

“I will do my best not to make an arse of myself,” Viktor promises. “I’m a very professional coach, you know!”

“That’s not exactly what I’m worried about,” Yuuri says. “It’s more that—well, you know why. I left Celestino for this. I was at the top of the world, and he got me there, and I thanked him by leaving. I doubt I’m his favourite person right now.”

Viktor shrugs, dropping down to join Yuuri on the bed, head in the crook of his neck. “But you’re my favourite person.”

“You know what I mean,” Yuuri says. He laughs, and Viktor can feel it in the way his chest moves up and down.

“And if it does get awkward,” Viktor continues, “I’ll be there to rescue you.”

“My hero,” Yuuri says, sarcastic. He tips his head back onto the pillow, arching his back to stretch. Viktor wonders why they have to go out at all.

They do, though. Yuuri is excited to see Phichit after months apart, and wherever Yuuri goes, Viktor is dead-set on following. It’s a muggy evening and Yuuri is so nervous about being late that they’re early, claiming a booth by the window and getting started by ordering drinks with Viktor’s embarrassingly choppy Mandarin and a dictionary app on Yuuri’s phone. In the end it’s for nothing; the waiter manages to establish that they all speak at least some English.

“I don’t usually drink before competitions,” Yuuri says, swirling his bottle of Tsingtao. “But…”

“Special occasion?” Viktor guesses.

Yuuri shrugs. “Your debut as my coach. That’s occasion enough.”

“I agree,” Viktor says. “In fact, I might even buy you another beer—my treat. To celebrate.”

“What would people say,” Yuuri says, “to my coach buying me drinks the night before a competition? What were you saying earlier about being _professional_?”

Viktor huffs, sitting up straighter. They’re both on the same side of the booth; just enough space for two. “Maybe you shouldn’t think of me as your coach for tonight.”

“Then what?”

“We could be on a date,” Viktor says. It’s more of a tentative suggestion than he wants it to be. He wants it to be an agreement.

Yuuri surprises him by agreeing, without hesitation. “It’s a date, then.”

“You don’t know what you do to me, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

“Only until the others arrive, though,” Yuuri adds, blushing, almost reproachful. “I’m not going on a date with you while Celestino’s here.”

Viktor leans in closer. “But Phichit is okay? Anyway, we’re already here, so we’ll still be on the date, even when there are other people with us.”

“That’s not how dates work,” Yuuri says.

The fact that he acknowledges it’s a date is more than enough for Viktor. Yuuri takes another sip of his beer, and by the time Phichit and Celestino arrive his second beer has turned into a third, bought with his own money. Viktor is peripherally aware that he’s being a bad coach, allowing Yuuri to drink this much—or at _all_ —when he has to skate tomorrow, but the alcohol is getting to his system too, and he’s long past being able to tell the difference between good and bad decisions.

“You,” Celestino says, upon his arrival, “are a bad coach.”

“Sorry we’re late!” Phichit says. “There was a whole mix-up at the hotel. You two—”

Yuuri holds out a hand, shushing Phichit. “We’re on a _date_ ,” he says, comically solemn.

 _We are_ so _drunk_ , Viktor thinks.

Celestino slides into the booth after Phichit, zeroing in on Viktor. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“It’s not his fault,” Yuuri cuts in. “It was as much—it was my idea too.”

The conversation is put on hold by the English-speaking waiter stopping by their table and taking their orders. To Viktor’s half-cognisant relief, Celestino orders a Tsingtao too, although Phichit refrains.

Phichit—Viktor’s never met him before now and, to his credit, he doesn’t seem too flustered to be in the presence of a living legend. Most younger skaters are somewhere between deferential and outright flustered. Yuuri had been nervous, the first time they’d spoken. But Phichit launches right into a rant about their problems with the hotel, and then he props his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, leaning forward and giving Viktor a very _significant_ look.

“You two are adorable,” he says. “Although, between you and me, Viktor, I think this was inevitable. Yuuri’s told you how much of a fan he is, right? He’s told you about the posters?”

Viktor wilts. “I haven’t _seen_ them, though.”

“All in good time, I’m sure,” Phichit says.

“Stop embarrassing me!” Yuuri says. It’s very declarative. He puts his bottle down onto the table and it clatters a bit, spinning in place, before it settles.

“You’re my best friend,” Phichit says. “It’s practically in my job description to embarrass you.”

“Still,” Yuuri says. “This isn’t how I wanted—not the impression—seeing Celestino again after so long.”

Phichit nudges Celestino. “Ah, he’s fine! I think he’s happy for you, right, Ciao Ciao?”

There must be something about Phichit. Viktor’s capacity to recognise good and bad decisions is starting to come back to him in pieces, and he can pick up a hint of reluctance, but Celestino grunts out his acquiescence. And after that it’s no longer awkward—Celestino gets another beer, gets chatty, and Yuuri doesn’t seem as terrified by this meeting of coaches past and present as he had earlier.

Viktor’s first thought is that Phichit is a miracle worker, and then, how can Viktor learn from this? When will he be able to make Yuuri feel so comfortable so easily, or is that something only years of friendship can achieve?

Then again—

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri whines, flinging his arms around Viktor’s shoulders—and where did his cardigan go?—“You shouldn’t listen to what anyone else says. You’re a good coach. I know it. Tomorrow… I’m going to win.”

Yuuri seems pretty comfortable with him, too.

“It’s just the short programme tomorrow,” Viktor says, gently amused. “You’ll definitely be in first place. I promise.”

“Wow, rude,” Phichit says.

Celestino is passed out on the table.

Viktor shakes his head. “Sorry, but you know I’ve got to support Yuuri!”

“Like a good boyfriend,” Phichit says, clasping his hands together. “It’s okay! I understand.”

It’s a good thing Viktor is still a little drunk, because otherwise he might say something stupid like, _I’m not his boyfriend_ —yet?—and if Viktor had said something stupid like that, then Yuuri probably wouldn’t have kissed him on the cheek, totally lacking in finesse but more than making up for it in exuberance.

The other thing about Phichit is that he always has his phone out. The camera sound goes off, not for the first time this evening, and the moment is immortalised.

“ _So_ cute. Hashtag couples of Instagram!”

And Viktor is too drunk to intervene, his Instagram presence too high-profile for this to cause ripples—no, it’ll be shockwaves, more likely. He’s going to ride this high and he can’t bring himself to care that there might be repercussions.

Later in the night, the buzz starts to wear off. Phichit has to drag a sleepy Celestino out of the booth, ever cheerful as he says, loud enough for anyone to hear, that he’s the most responsible of all of them. Viktor thinks this is a great slight against him, since he not only pays the bill, but supports Yuuri under his arm, walking him all the way back to the hotel like that. One-handed, Viktor trawls for his phone in the depths of his coat pocket and scrolls Instagram until he finds Phichit’s photo.

Yuuri’s cheeks are flushed but there’s no indication that he’s drunk on anything other than the heat of the moment. Viktor, for his part, looks happier than he’s seen himself in photographs since—how long ago? His eyes are half-closed and his hair is ruffled. It’s the most perfect photo of him that’s ever been taken.

On closer inspection, Phichit didn’t actually tag the post as _#couplesofinstagram_. Instead, the caption reads:  _living legends!!!_

“Oh,” Viktor says, very softly.

Yuuri hears him. “Oh? Are we nearly back?”

“Yes, darling, we’re in the lift,” Viktor says, biting back a smile.

“Lift?” Yuuri straightens his back a bit, narrows his eyes up at Viktor. “You mean _elevator_?”

“American English,” Viktor says. “Cute.”

Yuuri’s head dips again, and he rests it on Viktor’s shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me,” he says blearily. “I lived in America for five whole years, you know. What’s your excu—”

He cuts off in the middle of the word, fast asleep.

“You’re impossible,” Viktor says, but fondly.

From their morning in Minako’s studio and the few times they’ve managed to get the rink to themselves to practice _Stay Close To Me_ as a pair skate, Viktor has built enough upper arm strength and muscle memory to pick Yuuri up—this time, bridal-style—like he weighs nothing at all. The lift dings and the doors part onto their floor, and Viktor carries Yuuri to the door, when he has to put him down.

There’s some residual guilt for letting Yuuri get this drunk with such bad timing, but at least he’s sleeping peacefully and not throwing up into a toilet. Viktor has a whole host of pre- and post-competition memories of exactly how messy he gets when he’s drunk. Most of them involve Chris in some way. Chris—Viktor will talk to him tomorrow.

This new memory, though, features Yuuri as the star, and so long as he’s front and centre, Viktor is going to make sure he’s as comfortable as possible. He helps Yuuri into bed and, only minutes later, falls asleep beside him.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _!! REPOST !! @phichit+chu took this photo of me and the beautiful @ykatsuki and i wanted it here too! i hope you don’t mind, phichit!_

 

* * *

 

“Saw your photo with Yuuri,” Chris says. “Why didn’t you invite me out last night, hmm?”

Chris has not given Viktor so much as a half-second chance to apologise for dropping out of contact for the last year. Not for want of trying.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Viktor says. “Anyway, I wanted to—”

“I was skyping.” Chris raises one eyebrow. “I’m very much taken now, Viktor. I cannot leave my man alone for long. I suppose it’s the same with you and Yuuri.”

Viktor one-ups him and raises both eyebrows. “Not as such. I was actually going to apologise—”

“Yes, I’m very annoyed at you,” Chris says. Rightfully so, but his reasons are not what Viktor’s expecting: “Leaving me alone for half a season was forgivable. That gold at Euros wouldn’t have happened, otherwise. But for a whole season? It’s going to be so _boring_ without having you to skate against.”

“Hey, I’m still here,” Viktor says. “Just—”

“As a coach. It’s not the same. So when can we expect the wedding?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one with a partner.”

One part of Viktor is not happy with how Chris has hijacked this conversation. The rest of him is ecstatic that they’re talking at all. His heart feels so full. He thinks of how Phichit had referred to Yuuri as his “best friend.” Viktor had never thought of himself as someone with a best friend. Someone with _time_ for a best friend. But here he is, chatting easily to Chris, who he’s known for ten long years.

“Don’t be coy,” Chris says. “You and Yuuri.”

Viktor shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Really? Because I could’ve sworn you mentioned you were staying in the same hotel room, and—”

“Okay, yes, it is a little bit like that,” Viktor says. He might even be blushing. “But we’re not a couple, officially.”

“Now _that_ surprises me,” Chris says.

It’s true that Viktor made his name with a certain flirty persona, which has placed his public image somewhere between _playboy_ and _confirmed bachelor_. It’s a total fallacy—and Chris should know better—that he’s like that in reality. “Does no-one think I have it in me to be professional?”

“Ah, so that’s the problem.” Chris purses his lips. “Maybe this isn’t the kind of situation where you need to be professional. It’s good that you’re trying, but it’s pretty obvious to me that Yuuri needs more from you.”

Viktor turns to glance across the room, where Yuuri is warming up with Phichit. They’re not doing so much warming up anymore, heads bent close, chatting. Yuuri looks agitated, which won’t do, and Viktor is still feeling bad about letting him—encouraging him to—drink last night. Maybe what Yuuri needs now is not his reassurance as a coach, but as a friend. As a—

“God, I love him,” Viktor says, the words coming out of his mouth before he can stop to think twice.

“Yes, it’s very obvious that you do,” Chris says.

Viktor slaps his hands over his face. His brain is yelling at him to get a grip, to stop trying to make himself everything all at once for Yuuri, to learn how to compartmentalise. He thinks back to Yuuri asking him what he wanted them to be— _equals_. How can Viktor manage that balance when they’re still so tentative on the relationship front?

There’s only one thing for it. Tonight, he’ll tell Yuuri. He’ll _ask_ him—not the question that Chris is teasing him about, but a much simpler version, a question he should’ve asked months ago.

_Will you go out with me?_

Maybe Viktor is unimaginative, because every version of events he can conjure up ends with Yuuri saying _yes_. He looks back to Yuuri, still stretching with Phichit. Viktor watches, agonised, as Phichit reaches out and puts his finger to Yuuri’s lips. That could be _his_ finger.

“Give me a moment, Chris, I just have to—”

“As long as you need, loverboy,” Chris says. He gives Viktor one of his most outrageous winks—Viktor has seen enough of Chris’ winks to know—and a shove in the arm for good measure. “Go get him.”

Viktor shoves Chris back, because it’s easier than saying _thank you_ , and breaks into an almost-run to the other side of the room. “Yuuri! Are you warmed up yet? We should go over your short programme at least once more before it’s time to skate it.”

He holds out his hands for Yuuri to take, and Yuuri grabs them tightly, using Viktor to pull him up. He overbalances and tips forward, laughing as he bounces back onto his heels. Viktor could listen to that laugh on repeat for the rest of his life.

“Okay, let’s go somewhere quiet,” Yuuri says. He turns back to Phichit. “Um, Phichit—thanks.”

“Any time, Yuuri,” Phichit says.

“Come on, come on,” Viktor says, “we haven’t got long.” He wraps an arm around Yuuri and heads away from the rest of the skaters and coaches. “What were you two talking about?”

“Long story,” Yuuri says. “Let’s focus. Short programme. Tell me what I need to work on.”

Viktor can play the coach a little longer. He finds a deserted corridor and leans against the wall while Yuuri paces, the two of them talking through everything Yuuri needs to remember. It’s useful up to a point, but Viktor is beginning to realise that Yuuri is still mostly self-directed, and that although Viktor has undoubtedly helped him with technique and maybe a bit with his nerves too, Yuuri will ultimately always make his own final decisions about his skating.

It’s reassuring. It reminds Viktor of himself.

“And the quad—” Yuuri begins. He stops pacing, frowns. “I want to try the flip instead of the sal.”

If this was Viktor talking to Yakov, then Viktor would’ve disagreed right away and insisted on doing it anyway. Now Viktor is beginning to understand how he used to make Yakov feel.

“You’re not landing the flip most of the time,” Viktor says. Maybe he’ll talk to Yakov later about his coaching technique. “The sal is more reliable.”

Yuuri hesitates before he says, “Don’t you want to see me land it in competition?”

“I want to see you land it _perfectly_ in competition.” Viktor channels Chris and gives Yuuri a wink. “Which I know you can do, but it takes work to get there. It took me years of trying before I could land the quad flip. I don’t expect you to master it in a month.”

“There’s no need to say it like that,” Yuuri says, even though Viktor’s just being realistic. “I can do it.”

It’s cruel of him, but Viktor knows that Yuuri trying for a quad flip in an already tight programme would only end in tears, and by now he knows exactly which buttons to push to motivate Yuuri: “I suppose you’ve already beaten me once, so maybe you can! Who kn—”

“That wasn’t a real victory!”

Yuuri seems alarmed at himself for snapping, and even Viktor flinches, although it was the intended reaction.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. He goes quiet. “I just—sorry.”

For someone who’s supposed to be confessing his love to Yuuri tonight, Viktor is not doing very well. He tries to keep that from showing on his face. “I didn’t mean it that way. Yuuri—your strength is in your performance component. You’ll pull a higher score there than all the other competitors. You know that, right?”

“People keep asking me if I know things,” Yuuri says. “What if I said I _didn’t_ know? That actually I think my performance is lacking, and I’m going to screw it all up?”

“Then, no matter how confident I am, nothing I say will be able to change your mind,” Viktor says. “You’d just have to get out there and do it anyway.”

“I think I needed to hear that,” Yuuri says.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Viktor says, trying to lighten the tone. “A kiss, maybe?”

Yuuri glares at him. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“No,” Viktor says. “I mean, I let you drink last night, and now I’m doing a terrible job of reassuring you… I suppose I’m a bad coach, aren’t I?”

“You’re alright,” Yuuri says, “I suppose.”

And then, unprompted, he takes a step towards Viktor and pulls him into a hug. Viktor responds by pulling Yuuri even closer. There’s no-one here to see them. He can be as unprofessional as he likes.

Into Viktor’s shoulder, Yuuri says, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about later. Remind me, okay?”

Viktor has something of his own he wants to talk to Yuuri about. He nods, his nose brushing against Yuuri’s hair. “I’ll be sure to.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is not in a good position after the first day of competition. He’s not in a bad position either, but that’s not what counts. His short programme had been technically very strong and, surprisingly, he hadn’t attempted the quad flip. Yuuri always finds a way to surprise Viktor—whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, well. There was something off about Yuuri’s performance, though, and that component of his scores had reflected it. Viktor can already see the articles about it, focusing on the fact that Yuuri’s fallen behind in what should’ve been his strongest suit. It’s the sting of a wasp before Viktor can so much as hear the buzzing.

It is, of course, Viktor’s fault. It’s Viktor’s fault because he’s Yuuri’s coach, and he should’ve known better. He should’ve seen this coming.

What a miserable night for a declaration of love.

He imagines Yakov and Georgi, staying in this same hotel, gloating—Yakov because Viktor is failing as a coach, just as he’d suspected, and Georgi because he’s finally able to be Russia’s premiere men’s singles skater without Viktor there as the competition. He imagines Chris, so annoyed that Viktor wasn’t there to compete against him, with his high expectations that it would be just as fun with Yuuri there in his place.

Another inevitability: Yuuri doesn’t see it this way. He will always see it as his fault and his fault alone. Every flubbed jump, every mistake in the step sequence—Yuuri will wear them on his shoulders and let them wear him down.

Back in the hotel room, Yuuri goes straight for the shower. “I won’t be long,” he says, and leaves Viktor to lie on their bed and scroll through twitter. He doesn’t do it for long either. Some of the things they’re saying about Yuuri are so awful. Viktor is quite certain no-one ever said this sort of thing about him when he was still competitive.

Then again, he never spent much time lagging behind.

Viktor switches off his phone and uses his time alone to rehearse what he’s going to say to Yuuri. The easiest thing to do would be to call on the power in the simplicity of those three words. _I love you_ , he thinks, but it doesn’t sound enough. The shower is running loud. “I love you,” Viktor whispers to the empty room.

He does—but maybe it’s too sudden. He could build up to it, start by telling Yuuri just how much he’s meant to him ever since he first saw that video, and how a passing curiosity became an infatuation became the ridiculous depths which Viktor is swimming in now. He could write a novel if he had time, each chapter itemising the things he loves about Yuuri. He could write a song, if he had any musical talent.

He _could_ do something grand and passionate, but he won’t, because Yuuri is quieter than all the bells and whistles that Viktor’s spent the last year shaking off. He has to make it natural. He has to give Yuuri the right kind of space, first and foremost, to let Viktor know if—if, hopefully—he feels the same way.

When Yuuri comes out of the shower he’s dripping wet and wrapped up in nothing but a towel, and Viktor’s heart stops. He’s not irresponsible—it’s the night before the free skate, so all thoughts of divesting Yuuri of that towel and forming the beast with two backs are well and truly banished from Viktor’s brain, but Viktor made a promise to himself, that tonight would be the night he tells Yuuri how he feels, and he isn’t about to go back on that. He sits up, shuffling towards the back of the bed to make room for Yuuri to sit down beside him.

“What’re you looking at?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor puts his phone away, face down on the bedside table. “Nothing. You wanted to talk about something earlier?”

Yuuri doesn’t meet Viktor’s eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

“In your own time,” Viktor says. He reaches out, resting his hand at Yuuri’s jaw and, gently, turning Yuuri to face him.

“Right,” Yuuri says. “After the Grand Prix Final, let’s end this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry! i watched the anime as it aired and i had to wait a week for this to be resolved so now i'm inflicting it on all of you too!!
> 
> this chapter has a side-story from phichit's pov, which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11032881).


	7. Episode 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i'm inexcusably daft, somewhere between episodes 3 and 4 i forgot i was going to put a little insta caption in each chapter, so i went back and added those in 4-6. if you're interested, i'd say it's worth at least a skim reread. also perhaps worth rereading the end of episode 6, since this one picks up right where it left off...

_Let’s_ —

“End this?” Viktor’s throat is dry. He must be hearing things. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Yuuri says. “After the Grand Prix Final—”

“I _heard_ that,” Viktor snaps. “What do you _mean_?”

Yuuri sighs, wringing his hands together in his lap. He lets Viktor’s hand fall from his face and looks down at the bed. Not at Viktor. Anywhere but at Viktor.

“You’ve already done so much for me. And… it wasn’t fair of me to force an ultimatum onto you for Onsen on Ice. I can’t force you to stay with me for the whole season. I _shouldn’t_ have. And Yurio went back on his part of the deal, so—”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” Viktor says. “Is that all this is about, Yuuri?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. He reaches out to brush Viktor’s fringe from his face, lets it fall back down. “You’re crying.”

Viktor isn’t mad enough to get snippy at Yuuri for pointing out the obvious, but—he hadn’t realised. “Of course I’m crying,” he says. “This is out of the blue.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it for some time,” Yuuri says. “Don’t you get it? You’re wasted on me, Viktor. Go back to skating competitively. After this, I’ll let you go, and I’ll… I’ll…”

“Don’t say you’ll retire.” Viktor shakes his head. Now he’s crying properly. His voice comes out all scratchy, hoarse. “Don’t you _dare_ , Yuuri.”

“Alright, I’ll go back to Celestino, then.”

Yuuri sounds annoyed. He has no right—this is Viktor who’s being wronged here. It’s Viktor who’s poured his whole heart into coaching Yuuri and put his own feelings on hold to make it work, and it’s Viktor who chose to come to Hasetsu and do this in the first place. Yuuri hasn’t forced Viktor into _anything_.

“You won’t,” Viktor says. “Yuuri, I’m asking you—me, not you—I want to be your coach. _Please_. I told you I’d stay with you for the rest of the season, and I will.”

“And I’m telling you I had no right to ask that of you,” Yuuri says. “It’s my fault that I put that idea in your mind in the first place.”

“You didn’t—”

“Just.” Yuuri sucks in a breath. “Please. Let me do this, Viktor. You should be able to skate again without me holding you back—and if I don’t retire, you and I can meet again, this time as equals.”

That does it. Viktor’s getting to his feet before he even registers it. He’s walking to the door before he decides where he wants to go.

“This isn’t about you holding me back,” he says. “This is about you being selfish. If you want me to leave, then I will, Yuuri. But I wouldn’t be doing it for myself. If you think you want to skate against me—as my equal—then this is the wrong way to go about it.”

Because that day, in Sochi, Viktor hadn’t lost because Yuuri wasn’t his equal. He had lost because he was grieving. He had skated at his worst, Yuuri had pipped him to the post, and still Yuuri felt that Viktor wasn’t enough.

“You want to know something?” Viktor continues. “It felt hollow for me too. When you beat me. It felt like we weren’t equals. But it was _never_ because you weren’t good enough.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops into an _o_ -shape, and Viktor checks his pocket for his room key before leaving. He doesn’t go far at first, just puts his back to the door once it’s closed there. It’s perverse, morbid curiosity that drives him to listen out for the sound of Yuuri crying too, but the sound never comes.

So Viktor leaves.

He catches his face in a mirror by the lifts—blotchy, messy—and that’s when it hits him that he’s in a hotel full of skaters and skating fans, people who could take photos of him like this and photos that would be detrimental to his carefully sculpted reputation. He needs to get out and breathe something other than this stale air; he needs to go back and lock himself away from prying eyes. No—he needs a stiff drink.

With any luck, the hotel bar will be devoid of other skaters and Viktor will be able to get drunk enough to forget that Yuuri doesn’t want him anymore. Because that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? Viktor thought he and Yuuri had something, but clearly he was wrong. If Yuuri doesn’t want Viktor as his coach, then surely that’s symptomatic of another problem: that Yuuri doesn’t _want_ Viktor, not the same way Viktor wants him. Sure, Yuuri _says_ he likes Viktor’s company, he _says_ he’s doing this for Viktor’s sake, but there’s no way that’s the root of it. Is there?

By the time the lift reaches the lobby Viktor isn’t angry anymore. He’s just _confused_. He stumbles into the bar and before he can so much as order a drink, Yakov— _of all people_ —catches his eyes.

“Vitya. Don’t tell me coaching has driven you to alcoholism already?”

Viktor shrugs, taking a seat at the bar beside Yakov. “I didn’t make you an alcoholic, did I?”

“No, I’ve been stressed for twice as long as you’ve been alive,” Yakov says.

It’s awfully candid for him, but it strikes Viktor that they’re not talking as master and apprentice now—even though those undertones will always be there—they’re both here as coaches, and nothing else. Viktor wonders what it was like for Yakov, the first time he realised he was done with skating. How long after that did it take him to become a coach? Yakov practically _raised_ Viktor, and yet Viktor doesn’t know anything that happened between his illustrious career as a figure skater, well-documented on microfilm in academic archives and esoteric sports blogs, and the day they met.

“Anyway, I asked about you,” Yakov adds. “Not spending time with your—with Katsuki?”

Viktor shakes his head. “We’re—”

What _are_ they?

“We argued,” is what Viktor settles on. It’s Yakov, so he might as well tell the whole truth. “Yuuri thinks he’s… I don’t know, manipulated me into being his coach, or something. He wants me to leave him after the Grand Prix Finals.”

Yakov raises his eyebrows. He looks genuinely surprised and, for once, Viktor is not happy with being the surprising one. Yakov says, “He wants you to leave him? Not for him to leave you?”

“That’s the way he put it,” Viktor says. “He thinks I should go back to skating competitively.”

“Competitively?” Yakov snorts. “As if I would take you on again! You’ve been away from the sport for too long. Maybe a few ice shows here and there wouldn’t hurt, but you’re old enough to do that on your own steam.”

“I tried to tell him. That I left—for him.” Viktor pauses to flag down a waiter and order the strongest whisky they have. He doesn’t even like whisky. “Yuuri doesn’t listen to reason, sometimes. It’s one of the things I like most about him. But this is too far.”

“So you left him.” When Viktor doesn’t answer, Yakov goes on. “Lilia was like that too.”

“You’ve never told me anything about your marriage,” Viktor says. His whisky arrives, and he takes a tiny droplet onto his tongue, coughing as the burn hits his throat.

Yakov has the good grace not to laugh. “There’s not much to talk about. It didn’t last any longer than… eight? Nine years, maybe.”

“Did she ask you to leave her, too?”

“I wanted both of us to leave,” Yakov says. “I was offered a job in Tel Aviv, and I took it without telling her. It was foolish of me. I should have known she’d rather a divorce.”

Viktor wonders how far he can push this, what he can get away with asking. “Did you still love her?”

“Sometimes, people are going to tell you things you’ve heard a thousand times over, and you’re going to to think it’s hollow advice, and be annoyed that they’re not telling you what you want to hear.” Yakov sighs. “But if you love someone enough, you will know when it’s right to leave them.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, because it’s all he _can_ say.

“But—” Yakov pushes his empty glass away from him, leaving a trail of condensation across the table, “—if you love someone, you will also know when to fight to stay. I picked my battles, Vitya, and so you should pick yours. If you think Katsuki really intends for you to go, then go. But if there’s any, _any_ doubt—you hold onto that feeling, and you make things right.”

 _Oh_ , Viktor thinks, because he doesn’t trust himself with words anymore.

When his words do come, he says, “I don’t know what Yuuri wants.”

“That’s called doubt,” Yakov says, condescending but amused. “You’ve always been so fickle, it’s a wonder you can’t recognise it in other people.”

“I’m going to hug you now,” Viktor says, “if that’s okay.”

“At least finish your damn whisky,” Yakov says.

Viktor hugs him, pulls Yakov in close like he used to do when he was a kid and only came up to Yakov’s waist, clinging to a family friend in the sea of strangers that swam around him in his first weeks at Yubileyny Sports Palace.

“I’m not fickle anymore,” Viktor says. He used to cry on Yakov’s shoulder too, when he first started doing competitions, a precocious seven year old with a lot of talent and no idea where to channel it. “This time I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Which is why you booked that one-way ticket to Japan without telling anyone,” Yakov says. He claps an arm around Viktor’s shoulder with none of the warmth but all of the firm, reassuring steadfastness that he’s always had.

In the end, Viktor doesn’t finish his whisky. He leaves it for Yakov and makes his way out of the bar with time to spare for a good night’s rest. He does not think about the fact that he’s leaving Yakov there all alone, to drink away his thoughts.

Viktor gets back to his room—his and Yuuri’s room—ready for a conversation, because it’s a problem he can’t avoid for long. It’s the free skate tomorrow. He needs to make it right before then; Yuuri’s nerves are too fragile to take the weight of this argument onto the ice with him, and Viktor—Viktor is fragile too. But when he opens the door he finds the lights all switched off and Yuuri asleep on the bed, covers tossed around him, and Viktor can’t bring himself to disturb the scene.

He crawls into his side of the bed and holds himself back from curling around Yuuri, pulling him close, asking what they’ll do next.

It can wait until tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in a long time, Viktor wakes up feeling truly awful. He can’t even blame it on the whisky. It’s like a bad hangover, though, the feeling that you’ve been hit by a truck and your limbs are sluggish and all your emotions are happening at once and battling to take control of the person you have to be to pass in society. Viktor settles for the most neutral of his emotions, blank and pleasant.

Yuuri might’ve fallen for it when they first met, but now he’s gotten wise.

“Viktor… ?”

Waking up by Yuuri’s side is meant to be the most perfect thing in Viktor’s life. Instead, he just feels like an interloper, imposing his presence where it isn’t welcome.

“I’m awake.”

“Good,” Yuuri says. “I need my coach in top form today. I have a disaster to recover from.”

“It was hardly a real disaster,” Viktor says, his eyes still closed. “You’re still a contender for—bronze, or higher, definitely, depending on how you perform tonight.”

“Then if I medal in Moscow…”

“Right,” Viktor says. He tries to open his eyes and look at Yuuri, properly. He can’t manage either. “I know you’ll do well today.”

“I hope so,” Yuuri says. “Um, thanks.”

So this is what they’re reduced to, fragmentary sentences and talking to each other like all they are is coach and student. Yuuri must know—Viktor _thinks_ he must know—that he’s screwed up, because this distance wasn’t there before, or at least, never to this magnitude.

Viktor runs over their conversation last night in case there’s anything he’s missed, any slip-up on his part that could explain how wrong this all went. But it all comes back to Yuuri. It’s his decision to make or unmake as he chooses to. If only it wasn’t Viktor’s heart on the line.

“I’ll just take the shower first,” Yuuri says, and then his weight is gone from the bed and Viktor feels a few degrees colder as he drifts back to sleep.

By the time they’re both dressed and ready for morning practise, the day feels aimless. The men’s free skate isn’t until the evening, and the ice is occupied from around three, so once Yuuri’s short time on the ice is over he retreats back to their hotel room, and Viktor does not follow.

Instead, he agrees to meet Georgi for lunch. It’s not a proper lunch, because Georgi is competing and as such he’s on a strict diet that forbids the kind of fun, greasy food Viktor has been indulging in more and more lately. He’s lucky he has a fast metabolism. Georgi must notice this too, sitting across from Viktor and moping over his dumplings.

“You know, I thought the season would be a breeze for me without you around,” Georgi says.

Viktor understands, but he’s always a little bit difficult with Georgi because Georgi is his oldest friend and Viktor knows he can handle it. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Georgi says, because he’s always been able to see right through Viktor. “I’ll never forget our twenty-first.”

Of course—Viktor has never liked his birthday, never made much of a big deal of it, but with Georgi’s the day after he always insisted they throw a joint party. Their twenty-first was just after Viktor had won his first of his six total Senior Grand Prix Final gold medals, in his hometown of Saint Petersburg. Georgi was living there too, by then, but he hadn’t made it into the Final, and Viktor hadn’t realised he might’ve been a little bitter. Viktor wore his medal to their birthday party and showed it off, and Georgi had felt so overshadowed he’d run off to cry in the bathroom and make a mess of his mascara.

Or at least, that’s how Viktor remembers it.

“Are you implying that I make things hard for you by winning more often than you?”

“I know better now than to let that get to me,” Georgi says, sniffing haughtily. “You’re the living legend, Viktor. Everyone wants to bask in your spotlight. I thought… without you around, that spotlight could be mine.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you,” Viktor says, “but Yuuri is going to—”

“ _Yuri_! Don’t talk to me about Yuri.”

Viktor frowns. “Have you even met Yuuri? He’s—” _A real heartbreaker_ , Viktor thinks, “—the kind of skater people love. A performer.”

“We are talking at cross-purposes,” Georgi says. “I mean little Yuri Plisetsky, the—what is it he’s calling himself?—the _Ice Tiger of Russia_. I would guess he has more fans than you ever did.”

“Well now I _know_ we’re talking at cross-purposes,” Viktor says. “I’ve been skating competitively since before Yurio was born. There’s no way he could’ve amassed a bigger fanbase in all fifteen years of his life.”

Viktor does not think about the implications of that. On the surface, he knows he’s been doing this for twenty years, that he could skate before he could do his times tables, but it’s not a fact he’s ever pondered for long enough to let it sink in and really start bothering him.

Georgi raises an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised. And— _Yurio_? Is that what you’re calling him now?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Viktor says. “It’s the nickname Yuuri’s sister gave him when he was staying with us in Hasetsu, so we could tell who was being addressed. Isn’t it cute?”

“I’m not sure he would agree with you on that,” Georgi says. “Either way, his fans are pretty intense. And his skating… your Yuuri is going to get a real run for his money this season.”

“Oh!” It finally clicks. “You’re upset that the moment I leave, a new teen prodigy comes along to overshadow you, right?”

“You don’t have to put it like that,” Georgi says.

Viktor tries to appear contrite. “Sorry!”

Georgi goes sullen for a few minutes, picking at his dumplings. Viktor doesn’t press him to talk—so when he does, his words come out of left field. “Yakov said Yuuri is thinking of leaving you, anyway. So soon. Is that true?”

“Yakov is such a tattletale,” Viktor says. But then he remembers that Yakov is here alone with no-one for conversation other than Georgi, and it makes a little more sense. He softens his tone to add, “It’s not really true. At least, I hope not. He wants me to go back to competitive skating after the Grand Prix Series.”

“Bit of an ask, at your age,” Georgi says, mouth quirking into a smile.

“You can talk.”

Georgi shrugs, unaffected. “And that’s it? What about your relationship? He’s really leaving you, after all those love hearts you’ve been posting on Instagram?”

“I don’t know what we are,” Viktor says, “but it sure feels like a break-up.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right person for advice,” Georgi says. He sits up straight and folds his arms like some kind of desk job consultant. “I am the _expert_ on break-ups. The first thing you need to do is acknowledge that it’s okay to wallow for a few days. Or a month. Eat as much ice cream as you want, Viktor. Straight out of the tub if you need to.”

Viktor can’t help but cringe. “Georgi, we’re not even dating. And since when did you become a guidance counsellor?”

“Since Anya dumped me,” Georgi says. He says it like an opera singer beginning a plaintive aria.

“Anya… ?”

“The ice dancer I was seeing… ? Do you even check my Instagram?”

“Not really,” Viktor admits. “I had no idea you were dating someone. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Wow, you are a prize idiot,” Georgi says. “I structured my whole programme for this season around the theme of _Heartbreak_.”

Thinking back on Georgi’s short programme yesterday, that makes sense, but Viktor isn’t going to give Georgi the satisfaction of acknowledging that. Instead, he says, “Yuuri’s theme is _Love_.”

“I know.” Georgi does not look happy about it. “That’s why I find it so hard to believe that you two are… well, first of all, _not dating_ —that really doesn’t sound right, Viktor—and second, thinking of parting ways.”

“Yakov said I should fight for it,” Viktor says. “I mean, for what Yuuri and I have.”

“I think so too,” Georgi says. “Love is the most beautiful and pure thing you will ever feel. Don’t let that go.”

Viktor does not like showing weakness around Georgi. He’s always tried to be a bit of a big brother, acting all cool and superior. But he and Georgi are the same in many ways, muddling their way through life and love and failing sometimes, or a lot of the time. Georgi copes with it by making art, and Viktor—Viktor thought he was coping by running away, but problems that you ignore never truly go away, they just fester, and in absence of any attention, they usually get worse.

“I don’t know how,” he admits.

“Unwavering support,” Georgi begins. He starts a checklist count on his fingers. “Kindness, not confrontation; small romantic gestures; big declarations—”

“Should I really be taking advice from someone who just got dumped?” Viktor teases.

Georgi shakes his head. “I’m not falling for it this time. Either listen to me or don’t.”

What Viktor wants to say is that he’s listening, he’s taking notes. He just smiles, though, reaches across the table and plucks one of Georgi’s dumplings off his plate.

“You won’t be needing this, will you?”

“Viktor, I swear to god—”

This—this will never change, no matter what happens after the Grand Prix Series.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is good at comebacks. He’s a master of returning from the lowest of lows to climb to even higher heights, doing the unexpected—and Viktor thinks that’s because Yuuri never expects anything of himself except the very best, and never acknowledges when he’s done well, so he keeps pushing, keeps striving for something _more_.

One of very many things Viktor loves about him, unconditionally.

And now here’s Yuuri with a silver medal tucked safely into his suitcase and Viktor’s future in the palm of his hands, ready to crumple it up and toss it aside at a moment’s notice. It’s the morning after the free skate and Viktor didn’t feel as awful when he woke up, but he and Yuuri were still lying apart from each other overnight and they’re still not talking about it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Yuuri says.

Three simple words, and Viktor’s heart leaps. What’s he been thinking? Does he want to apologise? Ask Viktor to stay? Surely he knows by now that Viktor would do anything for him.

Evidence of that fact is the parcel Viktor’s taking out of his suitcase. Since Yuuri is the silver medallist, he’s been asked to perform his exhibition skate. Viktor unwraps the crepe keeping their costumes safe—two new versions of Viktor’s old costume for _Stay Close To Me_ , presented in beautiful duplicate, pink and blue, to signal to the world that this is a programme for two.

But what Yuuri says is, “I don’t think we’re ready to perform _Stay Close To Me_ as a pair skate.”

“That makes sense,” Viktor says before he can stop himself, “since you don’t want me to—”

“This is _not_ about that,” Yuuri says. He scrunches up his face into a frown. “Viktor… I want to show you a gold medal at the Grand Prix Final. Then we can skate it together.”

Viktor clutches his new costume close to his chest. He doesn’t say that Yuuri doesn’t know for certain he’ll make it to the Grand Prix Final, because he knows in his heart that Yuuri will. He doesn’t say that this is breaking his heart, to have the man he loves hold him at such a distance. He says, “And if you win gold at Rostelecom?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Unlikely, against Yurio and Leroy.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Call it an educated guess,” Yuuri says, giving Viktor a sad smile.

Viktor carries that smile with him for the rest of the day, as they get lunch, as Yuuri warms up for his _solo_ exhibition skate, as he cools down in the locker rooms while the stadium just a few walls away fills up with spectators.

The silver medallist is always second-last to perform and, while Chris is on the ice skating something delightfully raunchy as usual, Yuuri is waiting with Phichit, resplendent in royal blue. Viktor stands a respectable distance away—it’s standard for a coach to be rinkside during the exhibition gala, but Viktor doesn’t want to intrude.

He understands now that this isn’t entirely to do with him. It’s something Yuuri has to work through on his own, and the best Viktor can do is be there for him, unconditionally. Viktor waits—would wait forever—for Yuuri to come to him.

Yuuri does come, just as Chris is finishing. “I’m not very good at apologising,” he says.

“Are you going to do it anyway?” Viktor tries, hopeful.

“No,” Yuuri says. He startles, flinching back. “I mean—yes, maybe, later, I don’t know—I’m not good with putting these things into words, but I—”

Viktor takes his hands, put up between them like a shield. “In your own time.”

Something changes in Yuuri’s demeanour. He bows his head, and when he looks back up his gaze is pure forged steel, sharp and piercing right in the direction of Viktor’s heart.

“Don’t take your eyes off me. Promise?”

“I promise.”

If Yuuri’s free skate was near-perfect, then his exhibition skate is a revelation. The moment the music starts, Viktor knows that he and the thousands in the audience, thousands more watching on television and livestreams, are in for the most intimate performance they will ever see. But it’s not half so intimate for anyone else as Viktor, because he knows it immediately: this is Yuuri’s apology.

It’s there in the way Yuuri copies Viktor’s choreography with terrifying precision, but with such feeling in all of his movements that it never seems as overly technical as Viktor knows it is. If this had been Yuuri’s free skate, he would’ve won gold, and they would’ve given him an express ticket to the Grand Prix Final. And then—

Yuuri lands the quad flip, cleanly, perfectly. Viktor’s hands fly to his face just in case he’s crying—he is—and he covers his mouth to stop himself from shouting.

 _Stay Close To Me_ is, unequivocally, a love song. Viktor had asked for a love song when he was commissioning it, even though he hadn’t been in love at the time; he was just waiting for the right man to come along, that’s what he told himself. And skating to a song about love and longing was Viktor’s way of calling to that like he was lost at sea, a ship without an anchor. Now here is Yuuri, his body singing that song to Viktor, his hands reaching out towards where Viktor is standing.

That love Viktor had been looking for doesn’t feel so much like like longing anymore.

When the music ends, he would barely register it if not for the fact that Yuuri goes still. He’s not holding the pose that Viktor had intended, curled in on himself and so _lost_ —instead, he’s appropriated the final pose from his own free skate, this time with both arms outstretched.

The applause is raucous.

From somewhere next to Viktor, Phichit says very quietly, “How the hell am I meant to follow that?”

If it were Viktor, he would be thinking the same thing. But Phichit is young and he has a gold medal that all but guarantees him a place in the Grand Prix Final, and right now what he needs is confidence. Viktor snaps himself out of his daze and clears his throat.

“Yuuri gave a very melancholy performance,” he says. “If your exhibition is as upbeat and lively as your winning performance was yesterday, you’ll have the crowd wrapped around your finger.”

Phichit looks at Viktor like he’s been speaking to him in Russian. “Wow! I know you don’t really mean that, but thank you! That’s so cool that you’re trying, but let’s face it, you were practically drooling over Yuuri out there—and you have every right to! I’m just saying—”

Yuuri chooses this as the perfect moment to return from the ice and cut into the conversation.

“Um, Phichit… ?”

“He was _totally_ drooling,” Phichit says.

“I was not,” Viktor says, but he wipes his mouth just in case. This was meant to be a romantic moment. “But Yuuri—that was incredible. Beyond words.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “Let’s watch Phichit, and then we can talk.”

It’s a big ask. Viktor is so tense he might combust before Phichit makes it to the end of his exhibition skate, as enthralling as Viktor had predicted, but ultimately, a distraction from Yuuri beside him, fidgeting with his fingers until Viktor reaches across and takes a hand in his.

Throughout the rest of the performance, Yuuri fidgets with Viktor’s fingers instead of his own. He releases Viktor when Phichit comes off the ice, running to meet him, and Viktor stands back, watching how easily they talk, pushing back his rising envy. Then, Phichit looks over at Viktor, and Yuuri turns around, flustered. Whatever Phichit says, Viktor will have to thank him later, because in a moment Yuuri’s back at Viktor’s side.

“We’re going out for dinner after we’ve all changed back,” Yuuri says. “Coming?”

Viktor nods. “Of course. But—let’s talk, first? I haven’t congratulated you properly.”

“You don’t need to.” Yuuri leads the way from the bleachers out into a deserted backstage corridor. “I… I skated that for you, you know.”

“It was beautiful,” Viktor says. “Perfect. Full PCS. Technical, too—the quad flip, Yuuri—I _knew_ you could do it!”

“Usually you have some sort of criticism for me,” Yuuri says lightly. “What happened to being my coach?”

It’s quiet out here. There’s noise out there somewhere, but Viktor can only hear the sound of his own shallow breathing and his heart drumming against his chest.

“I like to think I’m more than just your coach.”

Yuuri’s chest is heaving. He opens his mouth, and—

A shout rings out down the corridor. “Yuuri! Come on, we’re going out soon!”

“We’ll finish this later,” Yuuri says, and his voice sounds like the way his expression looks when he skates to _Eros_. “Over dinner… behave yourself.”

“I resent the insinuation that I am ever anything less than impeccably well-behaved,” Viktor says, like Yuuri doesn’t have him on the world’s shortest leash. Like he wouldn’t do anything that Yuuri told him to.

Yuuri smirks. “Let’s wait and see.”

After all this—there’s still a conversation they need to have, but Viktor has never been happier than when he’s waiting to be surprised. He takes Yuuri’s hand, and lets him lead again.

 

* * *

 

“You know I didn’t mean any of that,” Yuuri says.

They’re back in the hotel room, lying side-by-side. They’ve hardly touched since earlier, and dinner was too rowdy for much else to happen. And it’s late; their plane back to Fukuoka leaves early tomorrow morning. They should both be sleeping. Neither of them are.

“I shouldn’t have said it, that night, about… us not being equals, or whatever. I wasn’t thinking. I just ran my mouth off. Because I kept telling myself you’d rather be skating. I told myself what it seemed like other people were trying to tell me—that you had given up everything to be here for me. I always feel like I’m going to let people down, even when I’m doing my best. And I thought you’d be better off away from me.”

“Do you want to know the funny part?” Viktor says. “For _years_ , I’ve been so lonely, Yuuri. I’m the best I’ve ever been when I’m with you.”

“You really feel that way about me,” Yuuri says, like it’s a revelation.

For him, maybe it is.

“How can I make it clearer?” Viktor asks. “Tell me honestly—I want to know how to show you how much I love you.”

It just slips out. Those three words that Viktor had been saving for a special occasion, tossed carelessly between them in the middle of the night, city lights blinking through the sheer curtains and cars humming by on the streets below.

“I don’t think you could’ve done any more to show me,” Yuuri says. “I think I just needed you to _tell_ me.”

This time, Viktor is more deliberate about it: “I love you.”

“I—” Yuuri begins. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

“Me too,” Viktor says. “And I know I’m meant to be your coach—and god knows I’ve tried to be professional, Yuuri—but I love you too much to keep it in anymore.”

“You’re the least professional coach I’ve ever met,” Yuuri says, laughing.

Okay, that’s probably a fair assessment. But Viktor _tried_ , and surely that’s worth something? He doesn’t get the chance to ask—the blankets shift and within an instant Yuuri’s weight is on top of Viktor, knees either side of his hips and hands on his pillow.

“Um,” Yuuri says. “I’m really bad with words, so I—”

He leans down slowly and kisses Viktor.

It’s no more than a brief brush of their lips, a hint of pressure, a hint, Viktor hopes, of many kisses to follow. He only realises a moment later that this is Yuuri testing the waters, stepping out onto a frozen lake and tapping it to see how thick the ice is. The good news is that this ice is a more solid foundation than any rink Viktor’s ever skated on, and he shows Yuuri that without words, too. The second kiss is even better than the first.

Unbidden, Viktor’s eyes fall shut, although he wants nothing more than to be watching Yuuri. Yuuri, whose lips are moving against his, whose tongue is running along Viktor’s teeth, prising his mouth further open. It starts like a picture-perfect chaste kiss, but they’re in bed together and mostly naked already and that chasteness doesn’t last long. It’s been at least four years since Viktor last kissed someone with tongue. He feels giddy. That it’s _Yuuri_ —Viktor feels downright transcendent.

Neither of them seem to feel the need to surface for air. Yuuri deepens the kiss and Viktor follows where he leads, even as Yuuri lowers himself further so that he’s lying almost flush on top of Viktor. It’s hard to kiss like that, though, so Viktor rolls Yuuri onto his side, keeping them pressed so close together.

Against Yuuri’s lips, he says, “I love you,” and, “I’m yours.”

“Be _mine_ ,” Yuuri says, possessive, digging his fingernails into Viktor’s shoulders.

“I’m yours,” Viktor says again, “for as long as you’ll have me.”

Yuuri pulls back, just a little bit. “You can stop coaching me after the Grand Prix Final,” he says, in between heavy breaths. “That’s still an option. I really don’t want to force you to do anything, Viktor.”

“I want to be your coach for as long as you’re competing,” Viktor says. “If you’ll have me—I want to be yours, as well. Your—boyfriend.”

“See?” Yuuri says. “All you have to do is say it. Then I understand.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Viktor, you _know_ the answer.”

“I’m not hearing _yes_ ,” Viktor says.

He tickles Yuuri’s sides, and Yuuri rolls away and onto his back, stifling a laugh into his elbow.

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Of course yes.”

And then he kisses Viktor again, and it’s better than being at the centre of a podium. Viktor thinks about what Mari had jokingly said, that Hiroko was thinking of him as her son-in-law. He looks at Yuuri in the half-light and he thinks, _I am going to marry this man_. A few minutes after their first kiss is too soon for Viktor to pop the question, but it’s going to be at the back of his mind for days, weeks, he just knows it. There’s a permanence to the way Yuuri kisses him and Viktor wants with the ferocity of a drowning man seeking the surface, wants to make it a promise.

Viktor moves again, tangling the blankets between their legs as he hovers above Yuuri. Yuuri’s hair is splayed out around him on the pillow like a halo, like how they painted them in the Renaissance, and his pupils are wide, and _wow_ , Viktor has never looked at anyone’s pupils so closely before. He’s astounded.

Running a hand through Yuuri’s hair, he says, “Don’t scare me like that, yeah?”

Yuuri shuts his eyes, and Viktor’s eyes only grow hungrier in the absence of their direct contact. When Yuuri opens his eyes again, he’s looking away from Viktor, shy.

“Yeah,” he says. Then, back at Viktor: “Let’s never end this.”

“Make that a promise,” Viktor says.

In response, Yuuri wraps one of his legs around Viktor’s back and launches upwards, kissing him soundly. And Viktor could stay like this forever—but he only manages half an hour before he starts to fall asleep, while Yuuri remains wide awake, eyes trained on Viktor until his own fall shut, against his will.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _whoops! we overslept and missed our flight! stranded in bcia but at least i have @ykatsuki for company <333 #hesteachingmeabouthashtags #ifeelsoold #homeagainsoon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something happy to make up for last week... ? thanks for sticking with me despite the angst :')


	8. Episode 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning: this chapter gets a little suggestive. i'm keeping the fic very much non-explicit, but maybe i'll expand on it in a side-story later, haha.

“So, Russia.”

“What about Russia?” Yuuri asks. He’s doing his best to help Viktor imitate a lazy summer night on a rainy evening late in autumn, lying across his stomach, Vicchan on top of their entangled feet. “Rostelecom isn’t for another week and a half. We can afford to put off planning a little bit longer.”

Viktor sighs. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself too. But, Yuuri, you’ve opened my eyes to the wonders of confronting my problems with words, so I want to—”

Before he can finish, Yuuri props himself up and leans in, kissing the self-satisfied smirk off Viktor’s face. Viktor doesn’t blame Yuuri for being frustrated—he’s been prodding Yuuri about _communication_ since they got back from Beijing. It was cute when Yuuri was deadly serious about it, and it’s still cute now that Yuuri’s wised up to the fact that Viktor is teasing.

This—the kissing, the _dating_ —is new, but it slots right into place like it’s been there all along. For all his flirty eagerness, Yuuri can be uncharacteristically shy about kissing. He pulls back, blushing.

“Okay. Tell me what you want to do in Russia.”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says. He’s getting much better at owning up to it. “I think I might be ready to go back to Saint Petersburg. If we have time.”

“We’ll make time,” Yuuri says decisively. “It’s going to be hard for you, isn’t it?”

Viktor shrugs, the bedsheets moving under his shoulders. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the sound of the rain against the windowpanes of Yuuri’s bedroom. It’s as good as a _yes_.

“I want to help, however I can,” Yuuri says.

“You help me just by being here,” Viktor says, opening his eyes at last. He’s deprived himself of this beautiful sight for too long.

Yuuri goes an even deeper shade of red. “I can’t take you seriously when you say stuff like that. I know I’m not perfect.”

“I don’t know that,” Viktor says. “Then again, you’re smarter than me, so maybe you know things I don’t. It all looks like perfection to me.”

“ _Stop_ it,” Yuuri says, drawing out the vowels. He sticks his head into the crook of Viktor’s neck and resolutely does not emerge. “That doesn’t even make sense. If you’re saying I’m perfect so I must be smart enough to know I’m not perfect…”

“Shh, don’t think too hard about it,” Viktor says.

Yuuri sighs, his breath warm against Viktor’s skin. “Anyway, you’re smart too. Don’t sell yourself short, Viktor.”

Viktor has never learnt not to sell his intelligence short; he’s always felt the need to keep it quiet, because people like you much better in front of a camera when you’re all empty smiles and no substance. And anyway, everyone is always telling him he’s a scatterbrain, so forgetful, so how _can_ he be smart?

Still, if Yuuri thinks it, it must be true.

But for now—Viktor deflects that conversation, communication be damned. “ _Yuu_ ri, you’re my boyfriend. You don’t need to call me _Viktor_ anymore.”

Yuuri nods. “What were those, um, diminutives? Was that the word?”

“That’s the word,” Viktor says. “There’s _Vitya_ , which is what Yakov always calls me, and some of my family, I guess, and—”

“Vitenka,” Yuuri says, and whether or not Yuuri knows he’s doing it, it’s like he’s knocked all the air out of Viktor’s lungs. “See, I remembered!”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says—it comes out like a pitiful moan. “You’re going to kill me one day.”

“I hope not,” Yuuri says. “I want you around for as long as possible.”

“And yet you blame _me_ for saying such romantic things.”

They fall into silence, Yuuri shifting his weight off Viktor so that they’re lying side-by-side. Vicchan whines at being disturbed and jumps off the bed, curling himself into a ball of fluff at the base of Yuuri’s desk chair. This time Viktor keeps his eyes open, but he still imagines the windows parting and the rain blowing in, filling up the room like a private hot spring solely for the two of them and Vicchan—who probably wouldn’t like that so much, on reflection.

Barely audible above the driving droplets and wind outside, Yuuri says, “You mentioned your family call you Vitya. Do you have a lot of family in Saint Petersburg? I don’t want to seem like I’m prying, but since we’re—oh god, I’m prying, aren’t I?”

“It’s alright, you can ask,” Viktor says. “It’s selfish of me to live with your family and not tell you anything about mine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Mari said Hiroko thinks of me as family.” Viktor doesn’t mention that the phrase _son-in-law_ was also thrown around in that conversation. “If I’m going to be part of this family, you should be a part of mine too.”

Yuuri gives Viktor a most gentle smile. “In your own time.”

“It’s not a particularly tragic story,” Viktor says. “My parents wanted a doctor or a lawyer, and instead they got an athlete. Oh, they never said they were disappointed, but kids can tell these things. Unluckily for them, I was the kind of kid who did what he wanted, whatever they thought.”

“You’re _still_ like that,” Yuuri says.

Viktor sticks out his tongue. “Well, I’ve never been as close to my parents as you are to yours. My father is always travelling for business, my mother’s an anaesthetist and works stupid hours. They split when I was 10, and I went to live with Yakov so I could be closer to where I trained. He was already my coach by then, you know; he was how I got into figure skating, because he was a friend of my grandfather’s from the—oh, damn, English— _synagogue_ , from the synagogue. He used to babysit me, and he’d take me to the rink to watch the skaters before I even started school.”

“I always knew you started young,” Yuuri says. “You always said in your interviews. But I guess I never realised _how_ young. You never got to be a kid, did you?”

“I never thought of it that way,” Viktor says. Yuuri makes him think about a lot of things he’s never thought of before. “When we’re in Russia—we could spend a few days in Saint Petersburg, after the competition. My father is probably abroad, but… you could meet my mother, if you like.”

Yuuri looks like he’s about to cry. “I would be honoured.”

Just in case he does cry, Viktor runs his thumb along the seam of Yuuri’s eyelid. Yuuri leans into the touch and presses his cheek into Viktor’s hand, letting Viktor draw his face closer. Their lips brush only lightly, but nevertheless it sends chills down Viktor’s spine. Before Yuuri, Viktor could count the number of times someone else has given him chills, but since the moment he first watched the video of Yuuri performing _Stay Close To Me_ he’s lost track.

“You’re the honour,” Viktor says. “My gold medal.”

Yuuri pulls himself up and straddles Viktor, dragging his hands from Viktor’s shoulders down his chest and brings them to rest on his hipbones. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to—”

Viktor looks right up into Yuuri’s eyes. “What are you going to do, hmm?”

This is new too, and Viktor would give up his old life in an instant if it meant living this every day. The idea of taking Yuuri to his home and bringing his old life and his new together is strange and thrilling and maybe one day he’ll know how to feel about it. Until then—

“How about I show you?”

 

* * *

 

Viktor surfaces early in the morning, rolling out of Yuuri’s bed and borrowing his laptop to open up Skype. Yuuri is busy in the shower, getting ready for a long day of training—and, as much as Viktor wants to join him, he knows he’s most productive when Yuuri’s not around, which is to say, never, when possible. But Viktor is doing his best to readjust to whatever his life is meant to be like without competitions and without Makkachin, so he has to make time _sometimes_.

The program opens immediately. It’s a little disappointing, because Yuuri had given Viktor his Skype password, which as far as Viktor’s concerned is only one step below a proposal—something he’s still thinking about, unfortunately for all the times of the day when he has to concentrate on other things.

He doesn’t ask why Yuuri already has Chris as a contact. Yuuri always talks about how shy he is, how he’s hardly been able to talk to any of the other skaters, but all the evidence Viktor has seen so far points to the contrary.

Chris picks up on the first ring. “Look at you, all shirtless,” he says.”

“Am I—oh—”

“No, please, I was enjoying the view,” Chris says, but it’s too late, because Viktor is scrambling around for a shirt—and anyway, he’s a taken man now; he has to be decent and save his best self for Yuuri. The first shirt he finds is one of Yuuri’s, which Viktor had flung gleefully onto the floor sometime last night. It fits, but it’s a squeeze around the shoulders. Yuuri won’t mind. Probably.

“There,” Viktor says, “much better.”

“ _Michigan Dearborn_ ,” Chris says, reading the shirt. “What’s it like in the winter?”

Viktor waves a hand. “Wouldn’t know. I’m borrowing this.”

“Oh, from who? I didn’t know you were living in America. I could’ve sworn you said, _Stay up late, Christophe my dear, so we can call first thing in the morning for me here in Japan_ —”

“Yes, I’m in Japan,” Viktor says, playing along. “Staying with Yuuri.”

Chris raises an eyebrow above the rim of his wire-framed reading glasses. “I didn’t know the little Russian terror lived in Japan.”

“No, Yuuri Katsuki. You might have heard of him. Best men’s singles figure skater in the world, international sex symbol, my boyfriend—”

“Whoa, hold on.” Chris covers his webcam with one palm for a moment and, when he pulls it back, Viktor is dutifully holding on. “Your boyfriend since when? Because in Beijing, I distinctly remember you telling me it _wasn’t like that_.”

“Since Beijing,” Viktor says. He tries not to preen too much. He fails.

“I suppose it’s all very new and _arousing_ ,” Chris says. “Look at you. It’s like someone’s following you around with a spotlight.”

 _Glowing_ , Viktor thinks, and he wonders if it suits him. There’s no way he’s going to be able to keep up his public image if he’s going around the place with hearts in his eyes. But equally, he wants the whole world to know how absolutely and utterly in love he is—if Yuuri’s okay with it. Oh, Yuuri might not be okay with it. Viktor will have to _communicate_ with Yuuri about that.

“Yes, and that person is Yuuri,” Viktor decides.

Chris leans forward, propping his chin up in his hands. “Ah, to be young and in love.”

“You’re the one with a long-term partner,” Viktor says, poking his tongue out.

“About that,” Chris says. He gets that devilish grin on his face that means trouble. “We’re engaged.”

Viktor nearly leaps out of Yuuri’s chair—he settles for perching on it like a gargoyle. “Congratulations, Chris! Ooh, that’s fantastic. Brilliant. When’s the wedding? Am I invited?”

“Slow down; don’t get too excited yet.” But Chris looks the way Viktor feels, heart full-to-bursting. “It’s illegal in Switzerland, so we’ll start with Thierry’s French citizenship, look for a venue, and _then_ pick a date. And of course you’ll be invited. Actually, I was thinking…”

“Sounds dangerous,” Viktor says.

Chris gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t comment. “It’s half the reason I wanted to Skype you,” he says. “To ask you—if you’ll be my best man.”

This is the moment when Yuuri chooses to come back from the shower; he slides open the screen door just as Viktor topples backwards off the chair, screaming, and hits his head on the floor.

“Christophe, what have you done to him?” Yuuri says, shower-fresh and messy-haired. He pays no mind to Viktor and calmly picks up the chair, situating himself in front of his laptop. Viktor watches this from his position on the floor, totally blissed out as his brain processes it.

“You’re invited to my wedding too,” Chris says. “I’d say the best man could bring a plus one, but he’s currently… out of frame?”

Yuuri is matter of fact when he says, “He’s lying on the floor sobbing.”

“ _Best man_ ,” Viktor wails. He rolls onto his side and looks up at Yuuri, who looks down at him with something like exasperated fondness on his face. “Yuuri, he wants me to be his best man! I’ve—”

— _never been anyone’s best anything_ , Viktor does not say.

“Well, have you said yes?” Yuuri asks.

“Yes!” Viktor enthuses. He scrambles to his feet and shoves Yuuri sideways so that there’s space on the chair for both of them. “Or, I’m saying yes now.”

“If you didn’t, I would’ve had to ask Georgi,” Chris says, “and you know how he feels about being second choice after you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Viktor says. “That poor boy has suffered enough heartbreak.”

“ _Poor boy_? He’s a day younger than you!”

“I didn’t know that,” Yuuri interrupts. “Christophe, as nice as this has been, I need my coach back. And, um, my t-shirt. Mum’s putting a wash on, Viktor.”

Viktor obligingly takes the shirt off. It’s awkward with how he’s sitting, trying to keep himself upright. THe shirt is hanging halfway, one arm out, when he says, “Sorry, Chris. We’ll call again soon, yes?”

“Of course.”

Yuuri reaches across Viktor, still struggling with the shirt, and waves goodbye, ending the call. “Oh,” Yuuri says, “I forgot to congratulate him.”

“Another time, darling,” Viktor says. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“Go on,” Yuuri says, taking his shirt from Viktor and crumpling it into an anxious ball.

“I told Chris that we’re a couple, now,” Viktor says. “Should I have asked first? I want to tell the world, but… I don’t know who you want to tell. If you want to tell anyone at all. I know we need to communicate more, so I don’t want to rush into anything. But is that alright? If I tell people?”

Unexpectedly, Yuuri laughs. “Oh, Viktor. You’re so cute. You know everyone already thinks we’re a couple. Do we really need to act any different?”

Viktor slumps, relaxing into the realisation that Yuuri is more wise than he’ll ever be. He hadn’t even realised his shoulders were tensed.

“Were you really that worried about it?” Yuuri asks, his smile dropping. He takes one of Viktor’s hands in both of his and presses his thumbs into Viktor’s wrist, tracing out small circles. “We can tell everyone, if you want. Make a big post about it on Instagram, create our own hashtag—”

“No,” Viktor says. “No, it’s fine. Nothing needs to be different.”

“It isn’t,” Yuuri says.

And he’s right—there might be a new dimension to their relationship, but the sentiment has been there the whole time.

 

* * *

 

Viktor is more than happy to fly economy if it means he’s sitting with Yuuri—because Yuuri is the world number one and heavily sponsored, but he still insists on saving his money to spend on things like costuming and music commissions, which Viktor supposes he would’ve done too, but he knows his sponsorship and modelling work used to earn him a lot more money than the average athlete. Viktor still has enough money sitting around to fly first class for a few more years—and one day he _will_ treat Yuuri to it—but he knows that as a coach, there’s no way he’ll be able to make enough money for the luxury lifestyle he used to live.

That, and he and Yuuri still haven’t discussed coaching fees.

It all feels a little extraneous now, because Viktor is beginning to discover that he quite likes flying economy, so long as he’s with Yuuri. There’s no legroom, and there’s a grumpy man at the end of their row who’s loathe to get up every time one of them needs to go to the bathroom—often, after however many complementary plastic cups and tiny bottles of wine they’ve ordered between them—but there’s an armrest they can lift up, and it’s just like being huddled up close in Yuuri’s single bed back at the resort.

Right now, Yuuri’s leaning over the window and looking out at the clouds. He’s sobered up, mostly, and Sheremetyevo is only two hours away, so once they land there’ll be no evidence they were ever drunk. Yuuri is wrapped in several layers of coat in preparation for a Russian winter, and Viktor is clingy; his arms have snaked their way under at least half those layers, his chin resting on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yuuri,” he says. One thing Viktor has discovered about Yuuri is that he sobers up faster thank Viktor does, although that’s usually by way of passing out for at least an hour. “ _Yuu_ ri.”

“You’re still drunk, Vitya,” Yuuri says.

Viktor pulls one leg up underneath him and crowds further into Yuuri’s space. “You’ve never called me that before.”

Yuuri is also alarmingly, endearingly honest when he’s tipsy and tired. “You’re family. Or—I’m your family. Either way, I get to call you whatever I want.”

Viktor is so touched he could cry. But, he doesn’t want to make a scene on the plane. _Family_ —he could get used to the way that sounds. He thinks about Chris and Thierry; he’s thinking about marriage again. A month into their relationship, it’s either a bad sign or a very, very good one.

“How about we go for one last bathroom break, hmm?”

“One last— _oh_!” Yuuri spins around and knocks his forehead against Viktor’s. It’s very unromantic, but he giggles anyway. “I think our friend is sleeping.”

Viktor glances over his shoulder at the man on the end of the row. Sure enough, his eye mask is pulled down tight and his mouth hangs open, head thrown back against the seat at an awkward angle. “We’ll just have to climb over him,” Viktor says.

It’s not particularly easy for all six feet of Viktor to climb over a sleeping man, especially not when at least two of those feet are still a little drunk, but somehow he manages, toppling into the aisle, propping himself up on someone else’s seat and covering his mouth to keep from laughing while Yuuri climbs out too. The woman in the seat he’s fallen against taps his arm, and Viktor thinks he’s about to get an earful, but she’s giving him a curious look.

“Yes?”

“Are you—” she begins, speaking Russian. “I hope this isn’t rude, but are you Viktor Nikiforov?”

Nothing makes Viktor’s day like being recognised. He turns to face her properly and clutches his chest, thrilled. “Yes, I am! Oh, are you a fan? How wonderful!”

“I guess I’m a bit of a fan,” she says. A shy smile flits across her face, replaced by determination. “Um, can I have your autograph?”

“Of course,” Viktor says. Over his shoulder, Yuuri is watching with curious amusement. “Do you have a pen and paper? Who should I make it out to?”

“Let me get out my notebook,” she says. “To, uh—Veronika. That’s my name.”

Veronika fishes around in a bag at her feet and pulls out a pen and notebook.  She sounds more comfortable talking to Viktor now. “I’m writing my novel in here. You can use this page.”

“You can sign a copy of your novel for me when it’s published,” Viktor says, winking. Old habits.

Flustered again, Veronika says, “Oh, no, it’s nowhere near finished—I mean—um, what were you doing in Japan? An ice show?”

“You don’t really follow the sport, do you?” Viktor says. “I’ve been living in Hasetsu for a while, coaching this wonderful young man here. We’re flying out for the Rostelecom cup.”

“I’m more a fan of your modelling,” Veronika admits. “We used to use you as a reference in my life drawing class. Who’s your student?”

“This is Yuuri Katsuki. Only the very best men’s singles skater in the world!”

Yuuri jumps at the sound of his name. “Vitya? Are you talking about me?”

“And he’s so nosy,” Viktor says. He knows Yuuri has enough room in his head to be excellent at English but not quite enough to know any more Russian than the few choice phrases of dirty talk Viktor’s taught him. “Well, I’ll forgive him.” He signs his name with a flourish. “There you go, Veronika! Make sure to watch my beautiful Yuuri at the Rostelecom Cup, okay?”

“You keep saying my name,” Yuuri says, poking Viktor in the back. “Speak English.”

“Sorry, darling,” Viktor says, turning away from Veronika at last. “Where were we?”

“Bathroom,” Yuuri says. He gives Veronika an awkward wave before grabbing Viktor by the wrist and yanking, _hard_. “Before the plane lands, maybe?”

Viktor quickly hands Veronika back her notebook and pen and lets Yuuri whisk him away—it was his idea, after all, and he has to take some responsibility for it. Also, wherever Yuuri leads, Viktor is guaranteed to follow.

Right at the back of the plane, they wait until the coast is clear before crashing into a tiny, unoccupied bathroom stall. Viktor has barely clicked the lock into place when Yuuri rushes at him, backing him against the door and kissing him with a frankly unprecedented amount of heat. There’s very little space for both of them to be standing, but after eight hours all cramped up side by side it hardly makes any difference.

One of the Russian phrases Viktor taught Yuuri—inadvertently—is, “Want you so bad,” which comes out of Yuuri’s mouth all in one breath, rushing out against Viktor’s lips.

“You have me, you have me,” Viktor says, and he knows Yuuri doesn’t understand, but he says it anyway, again and again. He puts his hands to Yuuri’s hips, pushing up his shirt, and Yuuri stumbles back, bashing against the sink. He laughs it off, though, pulling Viktor after him, capturing him with kiss after kiss after kiss.

“What do you want to do?” Yuuri asks. “We have—” He pauses, lifting his arm and peering over Viktor’s shoulder to check his watch, “—about an hour and fifteen minutes until we start dropping in altitude. After that, it won’t be the mile high club anymore.”

Sometimes, Yuuri will say something so scandalous that Viktor feels like a blushing Regency maiden. “Yuuri, you want to… ? Doesn’t that mean we have to—didn’t pack our condoms in carry-on—would it count?”

“I’ve decided, just now,” Yuuri says, “that so long as one of us—then, yes, it counts.”

They’ve never quite said it out loud, what they’re doing, and Viktor suspects it’s because neither of them have really _done_ this before. Well, Yuuri, maybe—Viktor images that he got up to all sorts, being undoubtedly the most handsome man on campus for five good years, and he says he doesn’t but he always _seems_ like he knows what he’s doing—but Viktor was the titular character from his fifth-favourite Madonna song until he met Yuuri, and it’s moments like now that he very much shows his inexperience.

“Then let’s do it,” he says, trying to be sexy and decisive, like the dashing Regency rake he will never quite manage to be. “Um, how should we… ?”

“Like this?” It’s not like they’ve never done it standing up before. Yuuri looks behind him at the set-up; sink, soap dispenser, hand towels, splotchy mirror. “Oh, maybe not. It’s a bit busy. How about the toilet seat?”

“It looks sturdy enough. Do you want to sit, or—”

“No, you sit,” Yuuri says. “I’m not strong enough to support you.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You can lift me. That is such a lie, Yuuri, you—”

Yuuri cuts him off with a giggly kiss, pulling away and leaving as much distance between them as the space allows. “Okay, maybe I like being on top. Do you have a problem with that?”

“God, Yuuri—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, or maybe he doesn’t want to, because Yuuri is stepping over his feet to manhandle Viktor onto the toilet seat—lid mercifully already down, so Viktor doesn’t have to so much as think about that frightful blue liquid—and he sits back. Yuuri gives him a playful shove, balancing with one hand on Viktor’s shoulders as he props his knees up either side of Viktor’s legs. Viktor’s shoulder blade knocks against the flush button, and he jumps as the cubicle echoes with a loud, sudden _whoosh_.

It takes Yuuri a good minute to stop laughing at Viktor’s terrified yelp, and when he does, it feels like the moment’s lost. They sit like that, foreheads pressed together and Yuuri leaning most of his weight into Viktor’s balance.

“Do you want to—” Viktor clears his throat. He hopes he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. “Do you want to try again?”

Yuuri checks his watch. “Just under an hour until descent. Unless you think you’ll last longer than that… ?”

When Yuuri looks at him like that, Viktor doesn’t think he’d even be capable of lasting five minutes. So if that’s the case, then he’s determined to make them the best five minutes Yuuri’s ever had. And soon they’ll be touching down in Moscow, and Viktor still hasn’t thought about what it _really_ means, for him to be so close to home, so he’ll take any distraction he can get.

He says, “Is that a challenge?”

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _no longer mile high #hellomoscow #jetlaggedalready #queueforbaggageclaimissolong #whydidntibringabook_

 

* * *

 

It’s weird. The hotel is full of international skaters and reporters and it’s like any other hotel for any other competition, but there’s nothing to mitigate that after almost a year, Viktor is back in Russia, and it’s _weird_. After months of hearing nothing but Japanese, and chatting to Yuuri in English, the sudden influx of the sounds of his mother tongue set his ears ringing. He’d almost forgotten what it was like.

Worse, he’s not here in any familiar capacity. Staying in a hotel as a skater, maybe, but a hotel in Moscow? More likely he would’ve stayed with his aunt and cousins, or—if he was feeling particularly brave—with Lilia, back before she moved to Saint Petersburg. And he’s not even here as a skater. He’s a coach now, and there’s no way to talk around that massive shift in his circumstances.

The only constant is that the press still treat him like the superstar he used to be. On Viktor’s first foray out of the hotel room—Yuuri is even worse with jetlag—he’s mobbed by a crowd with microphones and notepads and too many questions.

“How does it feel not to be competing this season?” one of them asks.

“I spent most of last season not competing,” Viktor points out. He knocks his sunglasses down over his eyes to reinforce the fact that he’s much better than all of them. In case they had forgotten. “So it’s not really any different.”

The journalist presses, “You haven’t scheduled any ice shows?”

“Not at the moment,” Viktor says. “I’m devoted to my job as Yuuri Katsuki’s coach. Who, by the way, is the reason I’m here—”

“And have you got any modelling jobs coming up?” another journalist asks.

“No,” Viktor says, bordering on annoyed now. “Like I said, I’ve been—”

“ _You_.”

Now _that_ is not a journalist. Viktor never thought he’d see the day when Yuri Plisetsky would swoop in like a superhero and save the day, but he’s never been one to swat away the hand of fate, either.

“Me!” Viktor says, clasping his hands together. “Hi, Yurio! Long time no see!”

“Why are you talking to me like we’re friends,” Yuri says, shoving past the reporters and snatching Viktor’s Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses right off his nose. “I’m not here for you. Where’s Katsuki?”

The reporters are crowding around the both of them now, but Yuri doesn’t seem to care. Viktor envies that nonchalance—he’s spent his entire professional life caring, cultivating an image precision-designed to please. He never thought, _What if they hated me?_ It wasn’t an option for the living legend. Yuri—living legend in training—doesn’t give a damn if he’s loved or hated, and people like him anyway. Viktor wonders what would happen if he tried that.

“He’s sleeping,” he says, “so you’re not to disturb him.” And then, summoning all his courage and a healthy amount of his inner fifteen year old: “Come on, I haven’t got time to answer all these trivial questions. Let’s get coffee. You can tell me how _Agape_ is going.”

“But Viktor—” one of the journalists begins.

Viktor wags a finger. “No buts. Let’s go, Yurio!”

“If you call me that one more time I am going to disembowel you,” Yuri says, with no real fire behind his words. “Where are we going?”

“Being rude is so liberating!” Viktor says, leading the way out of the hotel’s lobby. “You should’ve told me.”

“Not even rude, try harder,” Yuri says. “Where. Are. We. _Going_?”

“Anywhere else,” Viktor says.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Whatever. _Agape_ ’s better than ever, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s right, I did ask about _Agape_ ,” Viktor says. “Yuuri says you want a big _Eros_ versus _Agape_ showdown. Is that right?”

“None of your business,” Yuri snaps.

He’s all thorns and no roses, but Viktor knows that Yuri has spent the months since he left Hasetsu religiously liking every post on @ykatsuki’s Instagram, which is not hard to keep track of, since Yuuri posts so sparsely. He posted from the baggage claim queue at Sheremetyevo, a photo of the two of them looking dead on their feet and Veronika behind photobombing, and there’s a comment from Chris that says _ask viktor if he knows what ‘mile high’ means_. Yuuri has very conspicuously not replied.

“Okay, what is my business?” Viktor tries. “How’s everyone at the rink—Mila, Georgi, dear old Yakov?”

“And Lilia,” Yuri says, grumbling to himself like he doesn’t intend for Viktor to hear it. “She’s working me like a slave.”

“But has it paid off?” Viktor asks. It’s a trick question. He knows it has. Anything Lilia does is ruthlessly efficient and guarantees results.

Yuri seems to hesitate a moment before replying. Smirking, he says, “Wait and see, old man.” He pauses. “I don’t want coffee. Go wake Katsuki. We need to catch up.”

“Coffee first,” Viktor says. “I’m not waking him for anything less than a fire alarm.”

Almost reflexively, Yuri’s eyes dart to the fire sprinklers affixed to the ceiling. Viktor elbows him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever make Yuri like him, or even grudgingly respect him, but at least Viktor manages to get him to the nearest café, one he remembers from another lifetime, when he was last in Moscow. And if neither of them are particularly civil, then that’s how they’ll always be. For now, what matters to Viktor is that little Yuri respects _his_ Yuuri. That, he can work with.

 

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky, for want of a better phrase, wipes the floor with Yuuri Katsuki. His words. (Not a trace of respect.) They’re neck and neck after the short programme, with the Canadian just behind, but Yuri’s free skate is terrifyingly technical, enough so that it poses a threat to Viktor’s world records. Not enough to top John-Canada Le-Quebec’s free skate, though, and Plisetsky’s scowl from the podium is legendary, a meme on Instagram within the hour.

Yuuri is, predictably, unhappy with bronze. It’s secured him a place in the Grand Prix Final, but it’s not good enough for him. Viktor understands that feeling. He would feel exactly the same way, so he can’t fault Yuuri for retiring to their room as soon as the medal ceremony finishes and attempting to drown himself in the shower.

Viktor is waiting for him on the bed when he comes out of the bathroom. “Hey, feeling better?”

“Not really,” Yuuri says. It always surprises Viktor when he’s so forthright, even though he should know to expect it by now. “I let you down. I let _myself_ down.”

“You skated beautifully, and from the _heart_ ,” Viktor says. “That’s more than I can say for most of your peers.”

Yuuri throws himself bodily onto the bed and buries his head into the blankets. “Ugh,” he says, his voice muffled. “They’re not even my peers. They’re _children_. JJ is _nineteen_ , Vitya. Did you know he’s engaged? I hadn’t so much as been in a relationship at nineteen.”

“I didn’t know,” Viktor says, searching his mind for which one of the competitors was called JJ. “Anyway, you’re in a relationship now, hmm, Yuuri? Isn’t that more important?”

“I guess.” Yuuri looks up. “I know I should be able say you’re more important to me than a gold medal, but, Vitya—why can’t I have both?”

The worst part is that Viktor knows exactly how Yuuri feels. His own winning streak only started properly when he was twenty-two, the same age Yuuri was when he won his Grand Prix Final gold. Before then, Viktor was still working off the havoc puberty wrought on his body, still finding his feet as not just an athlete but an artist, too. Once he was reminded how that gold medal felt around his neck, in his hands, the same weight he had grown accustomed to in his junior world champion days, he had never wanted to feel anything ever again.

And for a time, he hadn’t.

All he says to Yuuri is, “I understand.”

Yuuri wilts. “No advice for me? No pep talk?”

“As your coach, I’m obliged to tell you that you’re inconsistent, and focusing on your failings will only make it worse.” Viktor leans forward and runs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. “But as your boyfriend, I want you to know that every time I see you skate feels like seeing you for the first time again—and, Yuuri, I will never forget the way you captured my heart. You can turn that inconsistency into a strength. Surprise the audience like you surprise me.”

“You’re good at pep talks,” Yuuri says, but he sounds unconvinced.

“I’m only telling the truth. The truth is—you remind me of the skater I used to be. Which means you’ll _definitely_ win gold at this GPF, again, and go on to be the world champion for four years running—”

Without warning, Yuuri leaps up and pins Viktor down with his back flat to the bed. “You are such a _provocateur_ ,” he says. “Do you really think I’m going to be the next _you_? You’re once in a generation, Viktor. Once in a lifetime. I don’t think even Yurio will come close to your world records. No, really.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re a fan,” Viktor says. “Tell me again about the posters, Yuuri. Tell me about all the nights you spent alone in your room with no company but my face on the wall.”

“I take it back, I’m not your fan anymore. You’re insufferable. I’m a JJ girl now.”

“A _what_?” Viktor frowns. “No, I don’t want to know. I don’t care who your favourite skater is. You’re my—”

Oh, right, JJ’s the one Yuuri said is nineteen and engaged. And now Viktor is thinking about marriage again. He pinches himself in the arm.

“—boyfriend.”

“Why the pause?” Yuuri flicks Viktor’s nose, then draws back. “Are you having any doubts? Second thoughts?”

“Never,” Viktor says. “I’m yours forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” Yuuri says. “You could get bored of me.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Don’t say things like that. Let me be dramatic, love.”

“Unbelievable,” Yuuri says, “to think that I love you anyway.”

They sleep not long after, but Viktor’s mind is still a collection of live wires, the way he always gets when Yuuri says those three words. And if, while Yuuri lies there dozing off, Viktor google searches _how soon after dating can you propose to someone_ , and then _most expensive wedding rings_ , then Yuuri doesn’t need to know, and hopefully he’ll keep loving Viktor no matter how dramatic he is.

After Yuuri’s despondence, the next day is his birthday, and it takes a turn for the better: Viktor has a message from Agata, arranging to meet in Saint Petersburg, and a much more terse confirmation from his mother that she’ll be free when he’s there too; the next day, he gets to watch Yuuri open the exhibition gala skating _Stay Close To Me_ , making himself a hard act to follow and viciously stealing the show from Plisetsky and John-John—JJ?—and Viktor takes Yuuri out to a fancy restaurant for his birthday dinner even though Yuuri insists it isn’t a big deal; the sex they have afterwards is _incredible_. Not a single thought crosses Viktor’s mind about how weird it is to be back in Russia, and about what it’ll feel like to go back home, how home will have changed in the space of a year, what Yuuri will think of it.

He doesn’t think about it until the day after, when they leave for Saint Petersburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viktor's fifth-favourite madonna song is, of course, _like a virgin_. his top four are _holiday_ , _la isla bonita_ , _material girl_ , and _open your heart_. in case you were wondering. for the record, _like a prayer_ is canonically her best song. viktor is wrong.
> 
> also, yeah, i've officially discarded my half-hearted plan to stick to canon episode content for each of these episodes. oops :P


	9. Episode 9

Viktor’s time in Hasetsu had begun with him playing tourist, so he resolves that Yuuri’s will be the same. But in the wake of the Rostelecom Cup, Yuuri is understandably exhausted, and they spend their first evening napping in Viktor’s flat on Petrovsky Island, a short walk from the rink and perfectly warm against the winter wind outside; all the warmer for Yuuri’s presence in Viktor’s bed, which suddenly seems much too large in hindsight.

And having someone else around makes it easier to forget Makkachin’s presence in the flat, her smell long gone, her footsteps just a phantom echo in the back of Viktor’s mind.

That, he doesn’t think about.

They’re only here for three nights, and Viktor had planned each in exquisite detail—tonight was meant to be a walk along the river near the rink, just something gentle, and then maybe dinner at a fancy restaurant. But most important is introducing Yuuri to the rink, because he needs to train as much as possible in the short time before the Grand Prix Final; after this they’ll be rushing back to Hasetsu for a week, and then to Barcelona, and although Viktor “Yuuri’s Boyfriend” Nikiforov believes that Yuuri could win the Grand Prix title again as he is now, Viktor “Yuuri’s Coach” Nikiforov knows that Yuuri needs to keep at it consistently, without overworking himself, in order to be in his top form for the GPF.

It can wait until the morning. Viktor is happy to doze off lying on his side, one arm slung over Yuuri’s chest, and he only wakes when he feels that position shift. When he blinks his eyes open, Yuuri is sitting above him, looking down with some indescribable emotion on his face.

Viktor lifts a sluggish arm and brushes Yuuri’s hair from his face. “Hey, beautiful.”

“This is your home,” Yuuri says wonderingly. “I was so tired earlier, I didn’t think, but—”

“Hasetsu is my home,” Viktor says. “But, this can be our home too. Whenever we’re here.”

Yuuri rubs at his eyes. “Stop it, you’ll make me cry. I—Vitya, I love you so much. I’m sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“I love you too,” Viktor says, and, poking his tongue out, adds, “Technically, I fell asleep on top of _you_. Don’t be sorry. You deserve the rest. And tomorrow… well, we have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Are you still alright with it?” Yuuri asks.

“It’s why I’m here,” Viktor says.

Yuuri drops down to press a kiss to the crown of Viktor’s head. “You’re so brave. I mean it. I wish I was half as strong as you.”

“You are,” Viktor says. He captures Yuuri while he’s still close, pulling him in for a long, lingering kiss.

“After I met you I spent a whole day hyperventilating because I couldn’t believe it was real. I threw up twice.”

“Gorgeous, stunning,” Viktor says, although he doesn’t remember anything like that from when he arrived in Hasetsu. Yuuri is probably underestimating himself. “ _So_ strong.”

“Tease,” Yuuri says, poking him in the gut.

Viktor tries to stay cool, but his stomach grumbles, and Yuuri lets out the brightest laugh that’s ever graced Viktor’s flat. He presses both of his hands into the softest part of Viktor’s body and squeezes.

“You’ve gotten squishier.”

“That’s what I get for not exercising,” Viktor says. He hasn’t skated since before Beijing, since Yuuri said he didn’t want to perform _Stay Close To Me_ as a pair skate until the Grand Prix Final. That’s another thing on their list for when they’re back in Hasetsu. Until then… Viktor hasn’t so much as been jogging; he’s more focused on Yuuri’s fitness than his own. He adds, “I’ll get rid of it before Barcelona.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I like it. I think I could still lift you.”

Viktor’s stomach grumbles again.

“Dinner?” Yuuri suggests.

“Dinner,” Viktor agrees. “It’s getting late, but I’m sure something will be open around here. And when we get back I can show you around the flat properly. All the places we’re going to f—”

“Dinner,” Yuuri says, covering Viktor’s mouth.

Viktor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s palm. When Yuuri pulls it back, he says, “I can’t wait to show you my city.”

It’s only been a year, after all, and even if this flat feels strange and hollow to Viktor, the streets of Saint Petersburg will always be home.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri has been looking out across the river for five minutes now, his gaze flitting to follow ferries and gulls as they pass, captivated. It’s only when Viktor shifts closer, one hand on Yuuri’s hip, that Yuuri turns to face him and asks, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course,” Viktor says.

“You have to promise,” Yuuri says, “that you’ll never tell anyone.”

Viktor draws circles with his thumb against the fabric of Yuuri’s coat. “Do you really think I’d do that, Yuuri?”

“No, it’s just—” Yuuri sighs, leaning into Viktor’s touch. “When I was a teenager, I really thought I’d meet you at some international competition and we’d—I don’t know, you would notice me somehow, then we’d fall in love, run off into the sunset.”

Viktor’s brain short-circuits, but Yuuri doesn’t seem to notice and keeps talking.

“I thought about all the details. You don’t want to know.”

Yes, Viktor very emphatically wants to know.

“I even tried to learn Russian for a little while—it didn’t go very well. I had to focus on my schoolwork, anyway. But I resolved we’d live in Saint Petersburg, because I thought you probably wouldn’t like Hasetsu—”

“Wrong,” Viktor says. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else right now.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Yuuri says pointedly, “I did a lot of research. I tried to guess where your flat would be—I even looked up property prices. I had a—oh, this is embarrassing—a scrapbook full of pictures of this very river. But I never thought… in person, it’s so beautiful, Vitya. It’s so much more than I imagined it being. And I don’t know if that’s because I only looked at photographs before, or if it’s because I’m here with you, and you’re not just some fantasy.”

Viktor brings one hand up to cover his mouth. “Yuuri—”

“Okay, I think I’m ready to go in now,” Yuuri says. He glances around, makes sure no-one’s looking, and pecks Viktor on the lips. “Are you?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Viktor says.

Yuuri can read Viktor like a book, and his uncanny abilities are only improving. He knows that this delay is just as much about Viktor coming to his peace with being back home as it is about Yuuri’s nerves.

They tangle their fingers together and walk from the river’s edge towards the rink. Viktor doesn’t think he’d be able to do this alone—this, returning to his rink after so long away, readjusting to the city he used to call home but which now feels like as much of a foreign country as China or Spain, and which is missing the presence he came to associate with walking these streets. Yuuri is not Viktor’s past; he’s the present, hopefully the future too, and Viktor has come to rely on him for comfort. He doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.

They’re met rinkside by Yakov and Agata, who’re watching as Mila runs through her short programme.

“Why do I feel like I have to berate you for slacking off?” Yakov greets. His English is not fantastic, so he speaks to Viktor in Russian—which, for Yuuri’s sake, is probably a good thing. “Even after a year away you’re still giving me nightmares. I want to ask you what you’re doing showing up so late, but—” He pauses and looks to Yuuri, adding in English, “Welcome to Saint Petersburg. I am sorry Vitya took you from training for this.”

“It’s fine, really,” Yuuri says, flustered. “I wanted to come.”

Yakov huffs. Agata, who speaks much better English, says, “It’s good to have you both here. And you, Viktor—we have all missed you. I hope you will come by this evening to say hello to my junior class.”

“I’ll see how we go,” Viktor says. “I have a reservation, though—I’m taking Yuuri out for dinner at Palkin.”

Yuuri’s research clearly didn’t extend to restaurants—at Agata and Yakov’s wide-eyed reactions, Yuuri turns to Viktor with a questioning look on his face.

“You’ll see soon, darling,” Viktor says.

“Yuuri, of course,” Agata says, giving him a warm smile. “I’ve followed your career for some time now, long before you were Viktor’s partner.”

Yuuri turns a very flattering shade of pink and tenses all over, the hand still holding Viktor’s clinging on tighter. “He’s my coach,” Yuuri stammers, and Yakov barks out a laugh. It’s such an obvious falsehood that Viktor almost laughs too, but that would make Yuuri even more uncomfortable, so he holds himself back. That, and the pride he feels on hearing the phrase _Viktor’s partner_ is immeasurable—ideally, though, he would be known as _Yuuri’s partner_ and he’d be the one to add, “ _And_ I’m his coach!”

“I hope you can come by too, to encourage the junior class,” Agata says to Yuuri, impervious to the embarrassment he’s radiating. “They’ll be excited to see not only one but _two_ world number ones.”

Now, Yuuri manages something akin to sincerity in his smile, and he even drops Viktor’s hand, coming into his own. “I would love to.”

Viktor knows this is a white lie, too, because if there’s one thing that makes Yuuri nervous it’s having to acknowledge that there are people who admire him, _especially_ younger skaters.

Speaking of younger skaters—Mila practically leaps off the ice to greet them, throwing herself at Viktor for a dangerous hug, given that she isn’t even wearing her skate guards yet. Yakov will yell at her for that.

“Viktor! You brought—” Mila’s attention is diverted over to Yuuri. “—the world number one! What are you doing hanging out with this stuffy old man?”

_Stuffy?_

“He invited me,” Yuuri says magnanimously. “I feel honoured to be here.”

“So you should,” Mila says. “We’re all very proud of it too.”

As if to prove just how proud, Yuri Plisetsky and Georgi choose that moment to arrive at the rink, and one Yuri accosts the other Yuuri immediately, drilling him about his training for the Grand Prix Final: “He’s— _what_ , he’s taking you to _Palkin_? Don’t do anything that idiot tells you to do, Katsuki. He’ll make you fat. Then he’ll make you lose. Not that I’m not going to beat you anyway.” It’s very touching.

Georgi pulls Viktor aside while Yakov yells at Mila to put on her skate guards and says, “You’re looking better.”

“Am I?” Viktor says. He wonders if Georgi can tell that he and Yuuri spent an hour in the shower that morning.

“Love works miracles,” Georgi says, accompanied by a forlorn sigh. “And it’s been strange at the rink without you here too. It’s good to have you back, even for a couple of days.”

Viktor looks out between Mila—who’s moved on to pestering Yuuri and Yuri—and Yakov and Agata, and the ice, carved with figures and sharp traces. Soon, he’ll make his own marks to join those, in a place where he knows he’s already made enough of a mark to last a lifetime.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s good to be back.”

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _spending the morning at my home-away-from-home rink <3 with @ykatsuki <333 and the gang’s all here! @yuri-plisetsky @milababi__xo @georgipopovich_

 

* * *

 

The pet cemetery is outside the city, a half-hour bus ride. Viktor spends every one of those minutes bouncing his leg up and down, his fingers twitching on top of his knee for the hand on top of the knee next to his, longing to be held.

Viktor has only actually been to Makkachin’s grave once—when she was buried. Since then, he has avoided this bus route like the plague, and, well, gone to such lengths as running away to Japan. Still, he remembers the route like muscle memory. Yakov hates the phrase _muscle memory_. Whenever Viktor uses it, Yakov says two things: “You’re making excuses. Don’t do it from memory. Do it _right_ ,” and, “The only muscle in your body that can remember anything is your brain. Do it again.” But there is nothing better to describe the way Viktor’s brain coasts to autopilot and his legs take over, leading the way through the cemetery without a map, to a small plaque in the newest section, with an inscription he’s long since memorised.

 _Here lies Makkachin, beloved companion of Viktor Nikiforov_.

The first time Viktor saw this plaque, it brought him to tears. Now it seems only absurd; the world has no idea why he retired, and yet here it is, written plainly and lit by the sun’s warm rays for anyone to see.

Yuuri sinks to his knees and gently sets down the small bouquet of gerberas he’d bought from a street vendor. “Makkachin,” he begins, “I’m—I’m so sorry we never had the chance to meet.”

Viktor puts one hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri reaches up and links their fingers, even though Viktor was trying to steady himself.

“She’d love the flowers,” Viktor says.

“I hope so,” Yuuri says. He turns back to the plaque. “Vitya had a lot of love to give you. He still does. And he’s been so good to my beautiful Vicchan—who I wish you could’ve met, too. I had—I had a poster in my room—of you and Vitya—”

Yuuri breaks off, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. That’s something Viktor had never thought about before—if he was in Yuuri’s life for so long, and Makkachin was at least mentioned in all of his articles and interviews, then that better explains why Yuuri had burst into tears when Viktor had first told him the bad news, and why he’s crying again now, doubled over himself with dew stains from the grass creeping up the knees of his jeans. Viktor tightens his grip.

Once all of Yuuri’s tears have dried and Viktor feels the time is right, he gently suggests that they leave. Yuuri is all too happy to oblige, following Viktor out of the cemetery and into an adjacent park, their hands linked. Viktor finds a bench under a copse of leafless linden trees and sits, slumping down into the curved seat. The only cure for his emotional exhaustion is Yuuri sitting close beside him, wringing his hands together.

“Thank you for coming with me today,” Viktor says, very quietly. “I knew I’d have to come back eventually, but the idea of doing it alone… it’s revolutionary for me, you know, that I can rely on someone else so much.”

Yuuri nods. “Me too. I always thought—I was a burden on everyone around me, and I would do better alone. You make me feel like I’m okay.”

“Just okay?” Viktor prods Yuuri in the side. “I want to make you feel like the only person who’s ever mattered, Yuuri.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Yuuri says, “because you _clearly_ matter too.”

Viktor laughs, and he loves how easy it is to laugh around Yuuri, to be himself in a way he’s never allowed himself. He dips his head to kiss Yuuri, but he’s interrupted by Yuuri’s phone ringing.

“It’s Mari. I’d better take this.”

Yuuri doesn’t bother moving, because even if it’s something personal, he knows that Viktor’s Japanese isn’t good enough to understand the full gist of the conversation. Viktor doesn’t understand, no more than a few snatched words here and there, but he picks up on the tone, and the way it starts sombre and only gets worse from there. Partway through, Yuuri gets up to pace.

When he finishes, he looks at Viktor with such anguish in his eyes that Viktor immediately gets to his feet and takes Yuuri’s hands in his.

“Darling, what is it?”

“It’s—” Yuuri’s demeanour crumbles in an instant, and he throws his arms around Viktor and buries his head into Viktor’s chest. Very quietly, he says, “Vicchan is in the hospital. He ate some steamed buns that’d been left out, and—they don’t know if he’ll—”

Yuuri doesn’t finish, and Viktor wouldn’t dare make him. He feels the tears down his cheeks before he registers them in the corner of his eyes.

“The _timing_ , Vitya,” Yuuri says, and Viktor suspects he isn’t only talking about the fact that they just left a pet cemetery. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

With more courage than he knows he has, Viktor pulls away and holds Yuuri steady, arms on his shoulders. “Yuuri, we have to go back. Right now. We’ll book new flights, we’ll—”

“ _I_ have to go back,” Yuuri says. He wipes at his eyes. “You need to stay.”

“Forever?” Viktor says dumbly. “What about Palkin? And Agata’s class?”

Yuuri laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “Of course not forever. We’ll have plenty of nights to go out for dinner.” He doesn’t mention their plans to go back to the rink. “I love you, Vitya, but your family—how long did you say it was since you last saw your mother?”

“I didn’t say,” Viktor says, and then, “Five years.”

“One thing I try to believe, even when I’m miles away and it’s so _hard_ to,” Yuuri says, “is that there’s nothing in life as important as your family. You and I, we’re—but you’ve known your mother for longer, you haven’t _seen_ her for longer, and if you leave Saint Petersburg without seeing her, you’ll regret it.”

“If I stay, and Vicchan—” But, no, Viktor can’t finish that sentence. Part of him knows Yuuri is right, but it’s been five years. What’s any longer?

“If you stay, I will still be there for Vicchan,” Yuuri says. “And if Vicchan doesn’t make it, you will have to be there for me. But until then—” Yuuri pauses, steeling himself with a breath. “I want to do this alone.”

The moment he says it, Viktor knows he’s lying. Viktor knows so much about Yuuri now that he can tell when he’s doing good by someone else, and when he just _thinks_ he’s doing good by someone else, and it’s actually a little bit out of obligation that Yuuri tries to make himself the right person for every situation. In this situation, Viktor would forgive him for being his selfish self, but he’s _not_ , and somehow that’s worse. Dimly, Viktor thinks that this must be what true love is.

He opens his mouth to protest again, but what comes out is, “I love you so, so much, Yuuri.”

“Vicchan will be fine,” Yuuri says like he believes it, and from that moment on, Viktor does too.

 

* * *

 

Viktor wakes up alone.

This would be normal in the big bed in his flat in Saint Petersburg, but _alone_ isn’t normal anymore. He’s used to waking up beside Yuuri, the warmth of that other presence, and their last night had been absolute perfection. It had made this lonely flat feel like _home_ again. Home, Viktor is beginning to realise, is a very transitory concept.

It’s almost midday—Yuuri will almost be back in Fukuoka by now. Viktor had seen him to the airport late last night after he’d hastily changed his flight. They had hugged at the gate until Viktor’s arms were sore.

Viktor is not usually an anxious person, but the suspense is getting to him, twisting knots in his shoulders and all the way down his heavy arms. And he has to go and have afternoon tea with his mother like this.

He takes the morning slowly, walking across the road for breakfast and spending nearly half an hour in the shower and then, only when he feels ready, putting on sensible clothes and preparing to see his mother. He takes the bus to the address she’s given him, a new place, closer to his but further from the hospital where she works.

Viktor doesn’t know what it says about him that he immediately scans the listings outside her block of flats for _Nikiforova_ —but, no, that hasn’t been his mother’s name for seventeen years now. He runs his finger down the plastic casing alongside the buzzers until it lands on _Darya Rubinshteyn_ , written in the same handwriting that wrote to excuse Viktor from school whenever he had an international competition to attend. These are upmarket flats in the Admiralteysky District, and the handwritten name labels give it a sense of the approachable. It makes it almost easy for Viktor to press the buzzer, and wait.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Viktor says. His voice comes out sounding very small. He wishes Yuuri was with him. “It’s—it’s me.”

There’s a staticky pause. “Vitya? You’re early. I suppose you had better come in.”

The front door unclicks and Viktor steels himself with a deep breath. Steam-cleaned carpets line the marble floor down the hallway to the single lift at the far end, an old-style metal cage behind spotless modern steel doors. Darya lives on the fifth floor, right outside the lift. Here, the ambience is dulled, wooden floors and cream-painted doors with gold-plated numbers hanging above the peephole. Viktor makes a fist and lifts his hand to knock, but the door swings open before he can get there.

He hasn’t seen his mother in five years; they’re experts at communicating in terse emails once every two months and no more, no less, and it’s been longer than two months since their last. She’s aged. Her grey hair is starting to go white, but her iron glare hasn’t so much as rusted.

“Well, don’t just stand there.”

She moves aside, and Viktor steps past her into the flat. He recognises all the furniture from her old place immediately, but the fireplace is unfamiliar, as are the fancily-wrought bars on the balcony. This building is aged, too.

“I’m surprised you were free,” Viktor says, off-hand, because he doesn’t know how to talk to his mother anymore. “Working the night shift today?”

“God, no,” Darya says. “I’m retired. I have been for two months now—after my cataract surgery, there was some nonsense about me not being fit for work… well, it was ridiculous, but I got a significant medical insurance payout, and now I have all this time and money on my hands and nothing to do with it.”

Viktor hadn’t even known she needed surgery. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he says.

“Aren’t you retired too?” She shuts the door behind him, pulling the security chain closed, and when she turns to face Viktor he sees something like amusement on her face. “I don’t follow the press, you know that, but one does catch wind of it now and then, especially after one of the junior surgeons worked out somehow that you’re my son.”

“I’m coaching, actually,” Viktor says. “Retired from competition, after—”

He realises he never told his mother about Makkachin.

“Yes, you did take that spectacular break last year, didn’t you?” Darya continues, oblivious to the shift in Viktor’s mood. “Bloody Anton is such a fan. Wouldn’t stop talking about what a loss it is to the sport. I could get you to sign something for him, while you’re here, and take it around to the hospital next time that incompetent who took my job needs my advice. Would you do that?”

“Makkachin passed away,” Viktor blurts out, “and I couldn’t—I couldn’t keep competing. I felt so useless until I started coaching Yuuri.”

Darya goes very quiet, her lips pursed into a tight line. Viktor knows she isn’t good at showing emotion. After all, when her twelve-year-old son had come crying to her after his first televised competition that the journalists scared him, she hadn’t tried to comfort him, just said, “I’ll buy you a dog. You like dogs, don’t you?” There’s a framed photo atop the fireplace, among others, of twelve-year-old Viktor holding baby Makkachin and beaming; with his father, on a rare stint back home; and Yakov, because it looks like his front steps they’re sitting on. Darya must’ve taken the photo; it must have been just before Viktor’s parents divorced.

Eventually, Darya says, “So Yuuri’s his name. That’s right. And wasn’t he meant to be joining us today?”

“He was,” Viktor says, “but—something came up. He had to go home without me.” He manages a bitter smile. “I wanted to go with him, actually, but he said it was more important for me to catch up with you.”

“A family man,” Darya says, raising an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not like you suddenly take on all of your student’s problems when you become their coach. This Yuuri sounds like he has more sense than you do. It is good to see you, you know.”

Viktor tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling, grounding himself, in case he’s imagining things. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Come on, you sad little man,” Darya says, even though Viktor is a foot taller than her, “let me make you tea, and you can tell me all about your problems.”

As she leads the way to the kitchen, Viktor asks, “And do I smell cooking?”

“Yes, I know, a minor miracle.” She never had time to cook when she was working. If they needed to have a meal together, Darya would take Viktor to his aunt’s house. “Well, retirement does funny things to you. I’ve started doing pilates. Joined a book club. Made these blintzes for you.”

Baked ricotta blintzes and homemade berry compote—Viktor could cry. “Thank you,” is all he says.

Darya shrugs. “It’s not as though I have anything better to do with my time. Now tell me about Japan.”

“Japan—Hasetsu is _amazing_ ,” Viktor says. “I’ve been staying at the resort Yuuri’s family runs; it’s an onsen, which means there are hot springs. Perfect for relaxing after training. Oh, and Hiroko—that’s Yuuri’s mother—cooks the most incredible dinners. Everyone is so—”

— _nice_ , Viktor wants to say, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s putting down his own family.

“—welcoming,” he settles on.

“Sounds like you’re making a real home for yourself there,” Darya says. She shuffles about the kitchen, putting on the kettle. “Next thing you’ll be telling me you’re running off to elope with Yuuri.’”

Viktor goes very still. “Actually—”

“Oh, god,” Darya says, almost dropping the kettle. “You _are_ going to elope with him, aren’t you?”

“We haven’t talked about marriage!” Viktor says hastily, because he doesn’t want to give his mother a heart attack on top of everything else. “But, yeah, we’re—a couple.”

“Trust my idiot son to fall in love with someone he’s coaching,” Darya says. “In professional circles, we call that a _conflict of interest_ , Vitya.”

“I know,” Viktor says, shamefaced, neglecting to mention that technically he was already a little bit in love when he offered to coach Yuuri.

Darya gives him a long look. She sighs. “So long as you’re keeping yourself occupied.”

The days of endless dysthymia and stubborn, sullen uselessness are long passed. Viktor decides that his mother doesn’t need to know about any of that. “Of course,” he says.

They take their tea in the living room, one of them seated on each of the two large couches with the expansive glass-topped coffee table stretching out between them. It’s a reasonable distance, Viktor thinks. Closer than they used to be. The conversation lulls as they eat—afternoon tea in any one of the Rubinshteyn households was always more about the food than the company, a reverent affair, and this seems even more momentous than usual.

Viktor has to admit, the food is _good_. But after a while he grows restless, and finds solace looking through the old photos above the fireplace. Most of them are of Darya herself, receiving accolades at conferences throughout her career. Aside from the one featuring Makkachin, there are also a few photos of Viktor as a young child, and one which must have been soon after he started competing internationally in the junior division, dressed in a Team Russia jacket and smiling proudly as he holds up a bronze medal, his first ever. But there are none later than that, no newer photos of him, no newer photos of Darya either.

“We should take a picture together,” he decides.

Behind him, Darya snorts. “Do you want to book in with a photo studio? Or shall I knock on one of my neighbours’ doors?”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Viktor says, looking back over his shoulder. “Haven’t you heard of selfies?”

“I’m far too old for selfies,” Darya says.

“If you don’t take a selfie with me, I won’t sign anything for your friend Anton.” Viktor pulls a rude face.

“Former colleague, not friend,” Darya corrects. She pauses, a frown spreading across her face in consternation. Viktor sees himself in that frown. “Oh, alright. You’re such a nuisance. Let’s take a _selfie_ , then.”

Viktor spends a solid minute trying to find the perfect lighting for their selfie, and then the right angle, because he has to bend uncomfortably for his head to be at the same height as his mother’s. They have the trees on the street outside behind them and when Viktor inspects the photo afterwards, he’s pleased to find that Darya has almost managed a smile.

“I’ll email it to you,” he says. “You’ll need some space on your mantlepiece. Maybe I could relieve you of one of these photo frames… ?”

Darya sighs. “Which one do you want?”

“The one with Makkachin,” Viktor says. “All the photos I have are ones from my phones over the years. None as old as this.”

“Of course,” Darya says. “And when—if ever—you’re back in Saint Petersburg, you will visit more often, won’t you? I want to meet Yuuri, too.”

What goes unspoken is this: that they won’t keep up their emails, and Viktor is always too busy to call. But they’re alright at this, meeting in person, refusing to talk about the past. And Viktor would be alright with more of that. He knows Darya would be too.

“I will,” he says.

“So,” she says, sitting back down on the couch where Viktor had been sitting earlier, “tell me more about Japan.”

Viktor ends up staying longer than he intended.

When at last he leaves, the sun has almost entirely set. As he’s stepping into the lift, his phone buzzes, and he scrambles to get it out of his pocket. It’s from Yuuri: _vicchan is recovering in hospital_ , and then a selfie of the two of them. Viktor is so relieved he almost cries. He doesn’t cry. In the time it takes for the lift to reach the ground floor he’s replied to Yuuri ( _i’m so happy! miss you both! i love you!!!!! <333_) and rebooked his flight to leave tonight.

He’s going home.

 

* * *

 

Viktor’s economy class seat on the late night flight gets him to Fukuoka airport in the early evening; the sun is already setting as they come in to land, and the woman who Viktor had spent a good few hours talking to about figure skating and showing her pictures of his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s dog is waking up from her nap. The skyline out his window seat view is painted with stripes of neon orange and lemon yellow against pale blue, and he watches transfixed as the colours change and they pass through scattered cloud.

As soon as the seatbelt sign is turned off, Viktor fumbles to switch his phone off flight mode and checks to see if there’s anything new from Yuuri. It seems that, in what Viktor can only conclude is his abject boredom at going over 24 hours without seeing his beloved, Yuuri has begun experimenting with all the different varieties of heart emoji available on his phone. Viktor feels like he has hearts in his eyes as what starts as a simple pink heart in response to Viktor’s _see you soon!_ devolves into chains of multicoloured hearts, then the sparkly ones, the one that's two hearts flying around each other, and eventually blocks of colour with crude patterns etched out in different types of heart. Viktor has never been more in love than he is with Yuuri in this moment, although he’s convinced the next moment, and the next, and the next, might have something to say about that.

The walk through baggage claim and customs seems to drag on forever; Viktor hadn’t thought about any of the long-term details when he first came to Hasetsu, and in the intervening months the process of getting a working visa and lying considerably about his amount of coaching experience had been enough to put him off airports for life.

It’s much better when he gets through to the other side. There’s glass separating the exit passageway and the arrivals lounge, so Viktor sees Yuuri before Yuuri sees him. Vicchan is there too—Viktor finds himself blinking back tears at the sight of his namesake, alive and well. And Vicchan sees Viktor before Yuuri does, too, pressing his nose up to the glass and wagging his tail.

Viktor blocks up the flow of people to prop his suitcase up by the glass and bend down, putting his palms atop Vicchan’s over the barrier between them. “Who’s the best boy in the whole world?” Viktor says, tripping over his words to speak Japanese, just in case Vicchan can lip-read. He gets a muffled _woof_ in response.

And when he looks up, there’s Yuuri, standing over Vicchan with his hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised, challenging. Viktor looks up at him and his heart just about melts.

The next thing he knows, they’re both running. Viktor is out of shape and his limbs are heavy from the flight, his vision foggy with exhaustion, but Yuuri is meeting him at the other end of this passageway and they don’t take their eyes off each other the entire time. Viktor is pretty sure his suitcase topples over as he runs into Yuuri’s waiting arms.

“Missed you,” he says, right into Yuuri’s ear.

“When did you last shower?” Yuuri says, and Viktor laughs so hard he has to cling onto Yuuri to stay upright. Yuuri stammers out, “I mean—are you—”

“It’s so good to be home,” Viktor interrupts, pulling him closer. “I loved your texts, by the way. All those hearts, Yuuri!”

Yuuri pulls back and gives Viktor a confused stare. “Hearts? What— _oh_ , god, Vitya, I haven’t slept in something like… forty-eight hours? Don’t judge me for some of the texts I sent.”

“Too late,” Viktor says, laying on the over-the-top cheer. “I judged you, and I found you to be the most adorable person on the entire planet. Congratulations!”

“Ridiculous.” Yuuri shakes his head, and pulls Viktor back in for another hug, not letting go even as he says, “We can’t stay too long. I couldn’t find a cheap hotel that’d let Vicchan stay with us, so we’re getting a train home. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. Ah—it’s only been a day and a half since I left you, but I missed you, you know?”

“I missed you too,” Viktor says. “We’ve spent the better part of the last year by each other’s sides, so I supposed that’s only natural.”

“I’ve been thinking—” Yuuri stops, serious all of a sudden. He gives Viktor a long, searching look. “I’ve spent a lot of these last days thinking about what you can do for me, as my coach.”

Before he can go on, Viktor puts a fingers to Yuuri’s lips. “May I?”

Yuuri nods.

“You think too much,” Viktor says. “Yes, I’m your coach, and yes, I’ve promised to be your coach until the end of the season, but if you’re worried about what we’ll be after the season ends—”

“Of course I am,” Yuuri says bluntly.

“—then don’t be.” Viktor sighs, taking both of Yuuri’s hands in his and running his thumbs across Yuuri’s bony knuckles. “Whatever happens after this season, I want to be by your side forever. I want to be _yours_.”

The universe, Viktor decides, must be conspiring against him. Under the clinical glow of the fluorescent lights in the arrivals lounge, Yuuri laughs softly and says, “That almost sounds like a marriage proposal.”

“ _Yuuri—_ ”

“Okay, sorry,” Yuuri says, like he’s embarrassed by himself. “I guess I really need to sleep.”

The fact that it’s sleep-deprived Yuuri proposing marriage and not wide awake, totally cogent Yuuri does take some of the veneer off it, but Viktor can’t help hold the feeling in his chest very close and very dear. He imagines what he’d say if he were less sleep-deprived too, the smooth way he’d pick up on that thread of the conversation and turn it into something real and lasting. But, no—an airport is not the place for it, and this is not the time.

Soon, though.

“Let’s get to that train then, hmm?”

Between their feet, Vicchan makes excited little noises, as if he knows he’s going home, and nudges his head against Viktor’s knees.

“He missed you too,” Yuuri says. His eyes are downcast but Viktor can still see a smile in their corners.

Viktor sticks his tongue out. “I missed you more.”

“Don’t be childish,” Yuuri says. “Pick up your suitcase and let’s go.”

They walk a respectable distance apart but on the train, Yuuri falls asleep with his head on Viktor’s shoulder and Vicchan sprawled over both their laps, and when they get home to the resort Viktor is just as tired, and he and Yuuri sleep in until midday and forget about training in the afternoon and if this what Viktor’s life is like now, he can’t wait for the rest of his promise, his and Yuuri’s _forever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last big angst. for real this time. did you notice i added the "vicchan lives" tag? i did that just for this chapter. anyway, i did promise no more cliffhangers, and i meant it :)
> 
> some other notes: yes, i am planning on using every key event from the show, in some order or other. take that as you will. palkin is a very, very fancy restaurant in saint petersburg. i spent a lot of time on google maps and street view for this chapter, but the pet cemetery is a work of fiction because i did a bit of googling and i couldn't even find anything about pet burial customs in russia. i didn't go looking too deep. sue me, i'm squeamish. ask me about darya. and agata. i love my OCs.


	10. Episode 10

They only have a few days in Hasetsu before it’s back to travelling, and the days in between Saint Petersburg and Barcelona pass too quickly, blurring in the drear of constant rain and cloud. Viktor likes rainy days when he can be indoors with a seat by the window, a cup of hot chocolate, a good book—but coming out of days cooped up in the rink to a wet walk home, it begins to wear on his patience.

It’s nothing to do with Yuuri. Viktor is just _tired_. Some days, it feels like the only thing he has to look forward to is the last hour or so, when Yuuri will put aside his competition routines and they’ll work on his exhibition skate.

On their last full day in Hasetsu before they leave, there’s light rain falling as they walk to the rink. Viktor insists on an umbrella anyway—his hair frizzes if he doesn’t take perfect care of it—so they’re walking close together to fit under its canopy, scant warmth passing between them, when out of nowhere, Yuuri asks, “What does _Stay Close To Me_ mean to you?”

That’s a hard question. Although Viktor had some ideas in mind when he commissioned and choreographed it, he’s not sure he could trust himself to articulate it.

“Since we’ll be skating it together,” Yuuri says, his voice high-pitched and nervous, “I want us to be on the same page.”

“I want that too,” Viktor says. This doesn’t need to be hard to say. Not to Yuuri. “I told everyone that my theme for the season was _Beauty_ , because my costumes were beautiful and my music was beautiful and I thought—well, people bought it. But it wasn’t the theme I had in mind.”

He goes quiet.

“Which was… ?” Yuuri prompts.

Viktor shuts his eyes. This doesn’t need to be hard. “It was _Longing_.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, very softly, like it means something to him too.

“I wasn’t longing for anything in particular,” Viktor continues, “but for a while I’d been feeling like there was something missing. I think… I had convinced myself that I could only be happy if I achieved things on my own. I would never have asked for help, which is why Yakov always had to give it to me unsolicited.”

He pauses only to laugh at himself. It seems so stupid now.

“It turns out that what was missing was—”

Yuuri is looking up at him expectantly. Viktor can’t say it, not outright, but he only hopes that Yuuri understands his meaning.

“—that _Stay Close To Me_ works better as a pair skate.”

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri says. “I mean, you don’t have to do things on your own. I thought that too, for a long time. But I don’t feel like I’m letting myself down when I rely on you.”

“Then you’ll let me rely on you, too?” Viktor doesn’t mean for it to be a question. He’s used to speaking with much more certainty than this. Then again, with Yuuri, everything that he’s used to goes out the door.

“I already do,” Yuuri says. He twists his fingers through Viktor’s, on the hand that isn’t holding up the umbrella.  “And, for what it’s worth—I was longing for something as well. For you, for a long time. For things to feel _right_. I guess those turned out to be related.”

Viktor presses a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. He’s used to surprising other people, not himself—so it’s a shock the way his voice breaks as he says, “You’re everything to me,” and the way his heart starts racing when Yuuri leans in closer. Viktor wouldn’t have it any other way.

They start with _Stay Close To Me_ today, because Yuuri won’t stop talking about it in that quietly excited manner he has, and they spend the afternoon on Yuuri’s quad flip, which is getting better and better. There’s a moment in between Yuuri fumbling a landing and getting back to his feet when Viktor realises with perfect clarity that soon Yuuri’s quad flip will be better than his own, and he’s not sure how to feel about that. Jealous, maybe—but overwhelmingly excited for how much more Yuuri has yet to achieve.

After Yuuri’s done, he spends five minutes just lying on the floor. “It’s relaxing,” he says. Viktor will have to try it sometime. “And anyway, whenever we leave, we’ll still be caught in the rain. I don’t want to go home yet.”

“Because the sooner we leave the rink, the closer it is to the Grand Prix Final?” Viktor guesses.

“Right.” Yuuri grimaces. “I guess I don’t want to think about what happens afterwards.”

“That’s easy,” Viktor says. “We come back to Hasetsu and get ready for Nationals.”

Yuuri gets up, sitting with his legs crossed as he uncaps his water bottle. “You’re really serious about coaching me to the end of the season.”

“Of course I am. Yuuri, we had this conversation in Beijing. I’m serious about being your coach forever.”

“No need to sound so annoyed,” Yuuri says, amused. Viktor hadn’t realised he was annoyed. “I can’t compete forever. Are you still going to be my coach when I’m thirty-five and doing ice shows to scrape two dollars together?”

“I hope I’ll be something else to you by then, darling,” Viktor says. The implications hit him a second too late. “And of course you won’t have to do any ice shows if you… don’t want to…”

It’s a flimsy recovery, and both he and Yuuri know it. Yuuri is blushing furiously, which is always a gift when Viktor knows he’s the one who put that blush there, but it’s less fantastic given what Viktor let slip. Viktor needs to stop thinking about marriage all the time. There’s a couple honeymooning at the resort, and Chris has been sending him email updates about possible wedding venues and colour schemes, and the other night once the bar had cleared out Mari was watching some show with a couple getting married on a beautiful spring day with cherry blossom petals falling around them and—Viktor _needs_ to stop thinking about marriage.

“Let’s, um,” Yuuri says, “go back now… ?”

“Good idea!” Viktor says. He helps Yuuri to his feet and mentally pats himself on the back for not being as much of a loudmouth as he couldn’t been. “I’ll fetch the umbrella.”

As it turns out, they don’t need the umbrella. The rain has been replaced by powder-light snow, spiralling through the air on a light breeze from the uniformly grey sky above. Viktor likes rainy days, but he _loves_ it when it snows.

“Do you remember the day I arrived in Hasetsu?”

“It was snowing,” Yuuri says. One corner of his mouth quirks into a smile, he bites his lip at the other corner to keep it at bay. “Of course I remember. I was so shocked.”

“After the way you skated my routine,” Viktor says. “I don’t know why you would be shocked that I ran to your side as fast as I possibly could.”

“Most people would call ahead first,” Yuuri sighs. “But you’re not most people, are you?”

Viktor knows he’s being teased, but he never minds when it’s Yuuri. “ _You’re_ not most people,” he says. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone. After the Grand Prix Final—”

He doesn’t finish. Yuuri doesn’t make him finish. They don’t need to talk about the future right now. That’s a conversation for later. Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand and another step forward.

 

* * *

 

Viktor breaks through the surface of the water and looks out onto the city below. Barcelona is glimmering under the changing skies of the late evening, and soon Viktor will go back to the hotel room, wake Yuuri, maybe call for room service and see if there’s time for sightseeing before they need to sleep. But for now, he has his thoughts to himself, and he finds that he doesn’t know what to think anymore.

It’s a year, almost to the day, since the last Grand Prix Final. The last time Viktor skated competitively. And—he’s getting better at acknowledging the other thing that happened a year ago. It won’t stop being strange to show up to competitions without competing, and the Grand Prix Final has this eerie new significance to Viktor, ever since—that other thing.

And Viktor has no idea how to feel about it.

Fortunately, he’s saved from having to have any feelings beyond the usual when he hears footsteps coming towards the pool, and turns around to see Chris, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass dangling casually between his fingers.

“Oh, pity,” Chris says, “I was hoping to go skinny dipping.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Viktor says.

“Nothing _most_ people haven’t seen before,” Chris says, shrugging out of his monogrammed bathrobe, “but you’re my best man, and I’m saving this for my future husband.”

He gestures at his crotch. Viktor manages a laugh, but his mouth has gone completely dry, and he’s thinking about marriage again.

Chris lowers himself into the pool and spreads his arms out along its edge. “So what are you doing out here all alone?”

“Yuuri’s sleeping,” Viktor says. “He’s not good with jetlag.”

“So domestic. You know everything about him now, yes?”

Viktor wishes he could say that was the case. But no matter how many times he envisages his dream wedding, Viktor can’t change the fact that he and Yuuri have only known each other for about nine months. Chris and Thierry have been together a couple of years now. It makes _sense_ for them to get married. Viktor doesn’t even know what Yuuri’s favourite colour is.

Chris clicks his tongue. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

“I’m getting worse at keeping my thoughts off my face,” Viktor says.

“Yes, that’s an unfortunate side effect of being in love,” Chris says. “You’ll get used to it.”

Viktor sighs, sinking lower into the water so only his head is dry. “I think I’m _too_ used to it.”

“Want to talk about it?” Chris offers.

“I don’t know where to start,” Viktor admits. “I’ve spent the last nine months making it so that my whole life revolved around Yuuri that I don’t think I really thought about myself.”

It was Viktor’s time alone in Saint Petersburg that did it. Now that he’s said it out loud, he’s certain of that much. Their last few days in Hasetsu had felt so barren because Viktor couldn’t shake the memory of what it felt like to be alone again, and—no matter how reassuring Yuuri was when he said Viktor could rely on him, it still feels like too much to force onto Yuuri’s shoulders.

“I hate to break it to you,” Chris says, “but you were lonely before you met Yuuri. Cripplingly lonely. Did you not notice?”

“I noticed,” Viktor says despondently. “It’s impossible that Yuuri, specifically, was the one thing missing from my life, but that’s what it feels like.”

Chris pours out some champagne into his glass. “I think you need this more than I do. I can give you alcohol, Viktor, I can’t give you life advice.”

“Would you try?” Viktor asks. “For my sake? I don’t need an entire pep talk, I just—am I doing the right thing? Giving everything to one person? Expecting everything in return?”

“You know best what makes you happy. If you’re worried about whether you’re giving too much, too soon—” Chris stops, his lips twisting into a frown. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…”

“But?”

“While you were in Saint Petersburg and Yuuri was back in Japan, he called me. Yuuri told me everything, Viktor. About Vicchan, about Makkachin. About why you retired. About how hard it had been for him to leave you, but how much he wanted you to stay.” Chris sighs. “You could’ve _told_ people, Viktor.”

Viktor isn’t angry with Yuuri for telling Chris. He’s angry with himself for being found out so easily, or for keeping it bottled up for so long. He’s not sure which one. He’s angry with himself.

“I didn’t know how,” is all he says.

“Whatever, I don’t want to talk about all that depressing stuff,” Chris says, waving a hand. “Why I bring this up is because of how Yuuri talked about you. Viktor, I’m _engaged_ —I’ve never heard anyone say anything half so romantic with such sincerity.”

“What did he say about me?” Viktor perks up, despite himself. “Does he think I’m handsome? Good in bed?”

“Probably,” Chris says. “Yuuri thinks the sun shines out of your arse, Viktor. I wouldn’t have needed to talk to him to know that. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he said that day, but I need you to know that the way he talked about you… well, let’s just say, you have nothing to worry about.”

Viktor squints. “I don’t understand.”

“How can I put this…” Chris pauses, taking a sip of champagne. “A relationship like yours is only weird if it’s one-sided. Does that make sense?”

Unfortunately, it very much does. It’s a very blunt way of putting it, but Viktor gets what Chris means. He and Yuuri have this thing between them—the kind of thing that takes precedence over everything else, all-consuming and bordering on obsessive, but it _does_ go both ways. Viktor has never once doubted Yuuri’s affection towards him, but he’s felt a spark of jealousy every time Yuuri has so much as looked in someone else’s direction. He can only explain that contradiction by saying that Yuuri feels the same way.

“Okay,” Viktor says. “Maybe it’s not about me and Yuuri.”

Chris shrugs. “Maybe you feel bad because you feel bad. That’s allowed, you know.”

Viktor had spoken to Yuuri about this, late on a hazy summer night at the beach in Hasetsu, a bottle of saké between them. That maybe Viktor had felt bad before Makkachin’s death, but that it had taken something earth-shatteringly awful for him to realise it. He had tried not to think about it after that conversation—the fact that it’s come up again is probably a sign that he _should_ be thinking about it.

“Thank you,” Viktor says.

“No, no,” Chris says, “don’t thank me! Thank this bottle of champagne. You still haven’t had any.”

“If I must,” Viktor says, but he’s being sarcastic. He’s always happy to drink in good company.

They spend another quarter of an hour or so in the pool before it gets too cold for Chris—and, admittedly, a bit chilly for Viktor. It’s a beautiful night, and a shame to leave it behind, but Viktor is passingly hungry, and maybe Yuuri’s awake by now. For no good reason, he feels like he owes Yuuri an apology.

“Oh, can I come back to your room?” Chris asks. “Thierry’s Skyping his sister.”

“I didn’t know he came with you to competitions,” Viktor says, which means _yes_.

“He doesn’t, usually,” Chris says. “But this one is close to home, and we managed to pull a few strings to get him a pass to the event. He _has_ been helping out the ice dancers back at our rink, but he’s really here for me, of course.”

There’s a certain amount of smugness in the way Chris says that. Viktor doesn’t blame him. If he wasn’t Yuuri’s coach—well, he’d jump on any excuse to get a rinkside pass. He’d pretend to be Yuuri’s choreographer. He’d pretend to be Yuri Plisetsky’s coach.

Then again, if he wasn’t Yuuri’s coach, he probably wouldn’t be Yuuri’s boyfriend, either.

Viktor puts that disturbing thought to one side. They take the lift up to his floor, tracking water along the carpets. He unlocks the door to find Yuuri sitting up in bed, looking at his phone.

“Yuuri! The apple of my eye, the light in my life—”

“Vitya?”

“Diminutives,” Chris says. “So cute. Sorry to intrude, Yuuri. My partner’s making a call back in our room, so your number one fan has graciously granted me permission to step into your glow.”

Yuuri scrambles backwards as Viktor jumps onto the bed to join him. “Have you been saying embarrassing things about me?” he asks Viktor. “Are you wearing anything? Have you been _drinking_?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Viktor says. He pulls back his towel to reveal the swimmers underneath. “Ta-da!”

“Is, uh—” Yuuri’s eyes flicker momentarily to a spot just over Viktor’s shoulders. “Is Christophe wearing anything?”

“Unfortunately I am,” Chris says.

Viktor flops down onto his stomach, letting Yuuri mess up his wet hair with a light touch. “Ah, Yuuri. You put up with so much for me. Thank you.”

“I don’t mind,” Yuuri says. “You could never be an imposition.”

Chris sits down on the end of the bed. “Am I intruding? I feel like I’m intruding.”

“No, stay, we haven’t caught up in so long,” Yuuri says. He pauses. “Not since Beijing.”

“I know you called him, Yuuri,” Viktor says. He shifts, burying his head into Yuuri’s side, leaving a damp patch on his shirt. “I don’t mind.”

“Sorry,” Chris says. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “I let it slip. He was worrying.”

“Was not,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s hand comes to rest at the back of Viktor’s neck. “I don’t mind either,” Yuuri says. “Christophe, do you want to stay for a bit? We should get dinner. I can call for room service so this one—” he pats Viktor’s neck, “—doesn’t say anything silly on the phone. I mean, I knew you could hold your alcohol better than Viktor, but this is…”

“Has he had anything to eat in the last couple of hours?” Chris asks.

“I don’t know.” Yuuri wrinkles his nose. “Viktor, did you drink on an empty stomach?”

“Maybe,” Viktor says.

The bed shifts beneath him, and then Yuuri is standing up and walking over to the phone. Viktor registers him dialling for room service as his eyes flicker shut, and he drifts to sleep, all his worries slipping from his mind.

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _hi! yuuri here! sorry for stealing viktor’s account but @christophe-gc is using my phone… and viktor looks so cute sleeping i just had to take a photo >w< #unprofessional #donttellmeyourpasscodenexttime_

 

* * *

 

When the allocated practise time is over, Viktor waits eagerly for Yuuri by the side of the rink. The Grand Prix Final atmosphere is getting to him. It’s a unique feeling that he’s never had any other time of the year. There’s something about the finality of it—the end of the first stretch of the season, and in December, nearing the end of the calendar year. Viktor has always liked New Year’s Eve more than his birthday. It’s only five days after, and it feels more like change than having to write a new number in the box for age when he fills out forms. The Grand Prix Final has that same sense to it.

And at last, Viktor feels like he’s coming to peace with the fact that he’s not competing this time around. If all goes well—which he’s sure it will, or it’ll reflect poorly on him as a coach if it won’t—then he’ll be on the ice anyway, joining Yuuri for his exhibition skate.

There are some nagging thoughts that Viktor can’t get out of his mind, but in the grand scheme of things, making sure Yuuri is in a good mental place for the competition is more important than Viktor having a bit of a bad day. There are some nagging thoughts—some that aren’t about skating at all.

“A good coach,” he tells Yuuri, “would send you right back to the hotel and make sure you get a good night’s rest before the first day of competition.”

“Are you calling yourself a bad coach?”

“Yuuri! You haven’t even heard what I was going to say!” Viktor holds out a finger and puts it to Yuuri’s lips. “I am an _excellent_ coach, for your information, but I’m also your boyfriend, and—correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t been to Barcelona before… ?”

“I haven’t,” Yuuri says, swatting Viktor’s hand away. “Is my excellent coach and boyfriend going to take me sightseeing?”

“I was going to suggest we go shopping, but we can do sightseeing too.” Viktor doesn’t mind changing his plans. He’d do anything Yuuri told him to, without hesitation.

Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. “Shopping, Vitya? I can go shopping anywhere in the world.”

“True, but you still have that tie,” Viktor says. “Don’t think I didn’t see you pack it in your suitcase, darling. Whatever sights we see, you must promise you’ll let me buy you a new tie.”

“Okay, fine” Yuuri says, exasperated. “A new tie.”

“And a suit to match.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I would never!” Viktor puts a hand to his heart. “Sometimes I just… want to buy you things. Is that so bad?”

“For your wallet, maybe,” Yuuri says.

Viktor shrugs. “My wallet can cope. I want to see you in beautiful clothes. I want _everyone_ to see you in beautiful clothes. I want us to match at the banquet. I’ll buy myself a new suit too.”

“Sometimes, I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Yuuri says, going suddenly quiet. “What made you look at me, and think—”

Viktor cuts him off, putting his finger back to Yuuri’s mouth. “I’ll tell you again and again, but Yuuri, you know that I love you.”

Yuuri doesn’t move Viktor away this time. He nods.

“And,” Viktor goes on, “if I ever give you any reason to doubt that—”

But the one thing Viktor can do to make sure Yuuri knows it for certain is the one thing he’s promised himself he’ll stop thinking about, and he can’t very well propose to Yuuri right here by the rink, around all the other skaters and coaches, without so much as a ring.

At last, Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand, moving it away for a second time. “You should know by now that the doubting is my problem, not yours.”

“Tell me what I can do to help,” Viktor says. “Anything.”

When Yuuri looks away, he’s bashful, but the expression on his face when he turns back is the wicked smirk that usually means Viktor is about to make a total fool of himself, and that he’s going to love every minute of it.

“You can buy me a new suit and a tie.”

 

* * *

 

“This must’ve been the place,” Yuuri says. “I’m sure of it.”

They’ve retraced their steps maybe ten times now. Yuuri is stressing, adamant on finding the bag they must’ve left behind, no matter how many times Viktor tries to tell him it was just some nuts they bought. At least it’s not the suits, or the three ties Viktor couldn’t choose between.

Viktor has been getting better at being the person Yuuri needs to be, but he still doesn’t know what to do when Yuuri won’t listen to reason. “It’s been twenty minutes,” he says. “We don’t need to find those nuts.”

“I feel so bad,” Yuuri says, “when you bought them for me, and went to all the trouble of—”

“Yuuri. You’re thinking of the shoes.” Viktor tries to keep his annoyance out of his voice. He hates that he’s like this. He just wants Yuuri to feel better. His feet are tired. His _brain_ is tired. “You paid for the nuts.”

That, at least, seems to bring Yuuri out of his own head a bit. “Oh. You’re right.”

“So? Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Let me buy you something else to make up for it,” Yuuri says. At the look Viktor knows is on his face, he adds, “Please?”

When has Viktor even been able to say no to Yuuri? He has to snap out of this mood. “Of course.”

They wander for a while, turning down new streets and into a part of the city Viktor doesn’t remember from the last time he was here. There’s a light breeze but Viktor feels almost battered by it, blown side to side and tossed asunder by the uneven paving in the alleyways, until they find their way back to a main street, lined with shops.

“I’ll find something for you here,” Yuuri decides.

“What are you thinking of?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri purses his lips. “Something that’ll mean something to both of us,” he says. He looks the street up and down, and his eyes land on—a jewellery store? Viktor’s heart skips a beat. He is trying _so_ hard not to think about the thing he’s trying not to think about, but Yuuri’s expensive taste is making it increasingly hard.

Taking the lead, Yuuri walks up to the jewellery store and looks in the window. Now, Viktor doesn’t even bother to guess what he’s looking at, because his own eyes land on a pair of gold thing-he’s-not-thinking-about rings, glinting enticingly in the artificial white light of the window display, haloed by Viktor’s shadow from the street lights behind. There’s no price next to the rings, but Yuuri is absolutely priceless, and a small fortune would be the least Viktor is willing to pay to have some token of their relationship to show off to the whole world, whether it’s for the thing he’s not thinking about or otherwise.

“What do you think?”

Viktor is brought back to the present. He has no idea what Yuuri’s talking about. “Um, I like it… ?” he tries.

Yuuri doesn’t seem to notice. He nods, pensive. “Then, we should—”

From inside the store, a member of staff comes to the door and flips the sign to _cerrado_. Viktor doesn’t speak Spanish, but the message is clear.

“Oh, well,” Yuuri says. “We can come back tomorrow.”

Viktor never does ask what he was thinking of buying.

So they keep wandering. Their route takes them through more back streets, past a night market where Yuuri makes up for the closed store by buying Viktor a cup of mulled wine—“But not for me; I’m never drinking before a competition again. Remember Beijing?”—and he nearly buys Viktor a key chain with a Christmas tree on it, too.

“You don’t like it?” Yuuri is very taken with the hand-carved wooden keychains at this stall. “I thought since your birthday is on Christmas…”

“Not really,” Viktor says. He counts off on his fingers: “Christmas is different in Russia; I’m Jewish, so I don’t celebrate it; I also don’t really celebrate my birthday—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Yuuri says, laughing a little. “Can I buy you a different keychain? How about the Barcelona Cathedral one?”

“We haven’t even seen Barcelona Cathedral,” Viktor points out.

Yuuri huffs. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn tonight. I’m going to buy the keychain. For _myself_. And then we can go see Barcelona Cathedral.”

“I think we’re nearby,” Viktor says. He pulls up a map on his phone, gets directions. “Yeah. It’s only a couple of minutes if we walk.”

He waits while Yuuri buys the keychain—he buys two—and then, because Viktor is starting to get cold and he’s fashionably underdressed, they stop again so he can buy a scarf. He finds a stall at the market which sells long cotton scarves in rich colours, and picks out one which is a deep burgundy, so dark it’s almost brown. It’s fancy, the price stuck to a leather tag and tied to the scarf by a ribbon. Viktor unties the ribbon and stuffs it in his coat pocket. He puts on the scarf and, braced against the cold, lets Yuuri take his phone and lead the way.

Maybe it’s the majesty of the Gothic architecture, or the way the white stone shines yellow in this light, but something shifts in Viktor, compelling to do something drastic. To think about the thing he’s been trying not to think about. Maybe it’s the beauty and spectacle of the cathedral, the dim light, the choir singing like a soft blanket of sound, weaving through the other noises of the night—this is the very moment, when Viktor lets go of his inhibitions and impulse control and acts exactly as who he is. He is Viktor Nikiforov, twenty-seven years old—nearly twenty-eight—a retired figure skater, a coach, learning on the job, and a hopeless, foolish romantic.

They’ve talked about the future, but it was always their future as coach and student, never _their_ future, as Viktor and Yuuri, young and in love.

Now or never.

“Would you marry me?” Viktor asks. “I mean—not immediately, but one day? When we’re both old and retired? We could get a house in Saint Petersburg together. Or Hasetsu. Or—”

“Vitya, _stop_ ,” Yuuri says. He’s covering his face, but he’s smiling, which is a good sign. “You can’t just _say_ these things!”

“Oh,” Viktor says. “Is it… too soon?”

“If it’s not too soon for you, it’s not too soon for me,” Yuuri says, relaxing a bit. “I mean, you know I was your fan. I’ve had daydreams about marrying you since I was a kid.”

“Oh,” Viktor says again. His face is heating up, despite the frosty wind. Yuuri had mentioned something like that, but hearing him say it so plainly—

“All I’m saying is, you can’t just throw that out there so casually!” Yuuri reaches forward and tugs at Viktor’s scarf, straightening it; a nervous habit. “You can’t just say you’re thinking about marrying me and leave it there. Say it properly.”

Viktor has to take a moment to make sure he’s hearing correctly. “Are you sure it’s not too soon?” he asks, double-checking. “We have only been dating for a month, after all.”

“Officially,” Yuuri says. “Doesn’t it feel like longer?”

“It does,” Viktor admits.

He never does things in half-measures—he had never really fallen in love before he met Yuuri, but now it’s obvious that he’s the same with love. It’s all or nothing, now or never. Discovering that Yuuri is the same is the most beautiful surprise. There’s no room for doubt.

“So, say it properly,” Yuuri says. His hands are still fisted around Viktor’s scarf. He presses them forward now, his knuckles digging into Viktor’s collarbones.

In this light, as in every light, he is uncommonly beautiful.

Viktor gets down on one knee.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he says, barely able to believe the words coming out of his mouth, “ _will_ you marry me?”

Although he must’ve known it was coming, Yuuri gasps anyway. He lets go of Viktor’s scarf and brings his hands up to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his coat. When Viktor blinks, refocuses, he sees tears in Yuuri’s eyes.

Gently, Viktor reaches up and takes Yuuri’s hands in his. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri says, his voice cracking on the sole syllable. “Yes, I want to—I _will_ , Vitya.”

Viktor wants to cry too. He wants to make the biggest scene he’s ever made, but there are probably people looking at them already—not that he would know, because his eyes are fixed on Yuuri’s—and he doesn’t want to make Yuuri uncomfortable.

“I’m so—” Viktor begins, but. Words can’t really do justice to the feeling.

“Get up,” Yuuri says. “Get up here and kiss me.”

Viktor is more than eager to oblige. He leaps to his feet and, now that he’s taller than Yuuri again, dips his head down and presses his lips to Yuuri’s. He tries to keep it brief, his lips numb because of the cold, but Yuuri is standing on his toes, and he kisses with such depth that Viktor can’t help but slip him a bit of tongue.

Pulling back, Yuuri wipes his eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

“I can,” Viktor says, laughing. “Ah—I don’t have a ring for you, I’m afraid. What should I give you instead?”

“Another kiss?” Yuuri suggests.

“I would love to,” Viktor says, “but if I’m cold, then you must be freezing, hmm? We should go and find somewhere to get a warm drink. Then I’ll buy you the loveliest ring I can find.”

“All the shops will be closed by then,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t hesitate, though, taking Viktor’s hand in his and leading the way down the cathedral steps. “You can buy me a ring another time. For now, you can buy me a drink.”

“I can do that,” Viktor says. “I can definitely—oh!”

He stops by a lamppost; while Yuuri looks at him curiously, Viktor fishes around in his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s the price tag he’d taken off his scarf earlier, still hanging off its ribbon. The ribbon is a beautiful deep red; it matches the accents on Yuuri’s _Eros_ costume, Viktor thinks.

Yuuri gets it right away. He holds out his hand, and Viktor ties the ribbon around his wrist.

“In the middle ages, a lady would give her knight a favour of hers to wear while he fought in a tournament,” Viktor says. “Please wear this tomorrow, and know that I am supporting you with my whole heart. Not just as your coach. As _yours_.”

“Stop it, I’ll cry again,” Yuuri says, raw with emotion. He manages a laugh. “You’re—too much for me, sometimes. Too good to me.”

“I hope I’m too good to you _all_ the time,” Viktor says.

Yuuri smiles properly now. “I remember reading articles about your skating that called you a ‘master of drama,’ the kind of person who created a story with every skate. Now I know it’s just because you’re the most melodramatic person on the planet.”

“I don’t mind that reputation,” Viktor says. “Come on, let’s go get a drink.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. He pauses. “ _Fiancé_.”

Viktor is quite sure he glows bright red under the streetlight. “You can call me that any time, you know.”

They set off walking, hand-in-hand. “I will,” Yuuri says. “It’s crazy to think we’ve come this far since… actually, it must be almost a year to the day since we met.”

“I would hardly call that a meeting,” Viktor says, grimacing. “You asked me for a photo, and I blew you off because I was sad, which is no excuse. I was very cruel to you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri gives him a funny look. “I wasn’t talking about that,” he says. “I meant the banquet, of course.”

“The banquet?”

The _banquet_ —which Viktor was dragged along to by Chris, trying to get him out of his undisclosed rut, and Viktor had coped with the embarrassment of being paraded around as second-best by drinking flute after flute of champagne until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

“Before you say anything, Yuuri,” he says, “I got _very_ drunk that night. If I said something to you—”

“If you _said_ something?” Yuuri stops in his tracks. “Viktor. Have you forgotten _the entire night_?”

“Oh, god, I said something, didn’t I?” Viktor moans. “I am so bad when I’m drunk. Well, you know that. You know what I’m like. Was I rude to you, Yuuri? Because at the time, of course I was mad at you for beating me, but I didn’t know what I was thinking. I was so sad, Yuuri.”

Viktor expects a stern rebuke. Instead, Yuuri bursts into laughter.

“All this time! All this time, Viktor, I thought you—no, I can’t believe this. You’re telling me you have no idea what happened between us at the banquet? We’re—you _proposed_ to me, and you don’t remember?”

“Will you tell me then?”

“Oh, I got Christophe to give me the photos yesterday, while you were sleeping,” Yuuri says. There’s a hint of a glint in his eyes. “Let me show you instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you, too, would like to see what happened at the banquet, you can do the next best thing and read about it: [here's a side-story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11309256/) which goes into detail. it's a double update monday! :D


	11. Episode 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning: there's a bit of a frisky scene in this chapter; exercise caution!

“Wow,” Viktor says for the fiftieth time. He’s already looked through all the photos once, sitting in the corner of this café they’ve found. He’s looking through them again. He wants to look at them for the rest of his life, but he will settle for waking up next to Yuuri every morning instead. “I’m furious at myself, Yuuri. I wish I could remember this…”

“That’s not all,” Yuuri says. He’s gone quiet now; it was funny at first, but the reality of it seems to have hit him. “You said something to me—you made a promise.”

“That I would love and cherish you for all eternity?” Viktor guesses hopefully.

Yuuri cracks a smile. “Close. You said that you would be my coach.”

Viktor doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“That’s why I’m so surprised,” Yuuri says. “Because… you came to that conclusion a second time, without all the alcohol and the atmosphere and… you said, ‘Give me a sign.’ I thought you saw that video and you knew _why_ I made it, but you—”

“Saw a handsome man skating my routine and fell in love?” Viktor says. “That’s how it happened for me. Yuuri, you have to understand—I love you no less because of this.”

“How can you _not_?” Yuuri says. “I’ve spent more than half my life longing for—for the _idea_ of you, and all this time, since last December, I thought you felt the same. I was so sure of it.”

“I _do_ feel the same,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know how to make it any clearer.

Something like horror dawns on Yuuri’s face. “I flirted with you! You must’ve thought I was coming on so strong. And there you were, just trying to coach me.”

“To be honest, I thought I was the luckiest man alive, to have you flirting with me,” Viktor says. “And I still do. I _was_ trying to coach you, and for a while I was trying very, very hard to be professional about it. But from the very first moment I was doomed, because I had already fallen for you.”

“Tell me the precise moment,” Yuuri says, demanding all of a sudden. “Tell me when you fell for me, properly. Not when you saw the video of me. I saw hundreds of videos of you, but it wasn’t until we danced that night that it became—ah, something attainable, you know? Like at last we were meeting as equals. So when was it? Tell me precisely, Viktor.”

It’s the easiest question Viktor’s ever had to answer. “When you lost to Yurio.”

“So you like me better when I’m losing,” Yuuri says, slumping forward. “I see.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Viktor says quickly, leaning across the table and waving his hands in Yuuri’s face. “I knew that I couldn’t go back to Russia. I couldn’t leave you. And I _won’t_ , Yuuri.”

“I understand,” Yuuri says, very softly. “But you need to understand too, that it’s going to take me some time to wrap my head around this.”

Viktor nods. He takes Yuuri’s hands in his. “I’ll still be here. Yuuri, I meant every word I’ve said to you tonight. I won’t go back on my promise. I love—”

“Well well well, look at you two!”

Of course. Trust Chris to interrupt a _moment_.

“Christophe,” Yuuri stammers, jerking his hands away from Viktor’s. “And—”

And everyone else, apparently; Chris has somehow managed to pick up Phichit, Celestino, Minako, and Mari.

“We saw you through the window,” Phichit says, pulling up another table and a chair for himself. “I didn’t want to interrupt you on a date, but Mari here insisted.”

Ever the protective older sister. Viktor respects that. He has, after all, just skirted dangerously close to breaking Yuuri’s heart. Mari, for her part, looks pretty starstruck that Phichit even knows her name. A moment later, she snaps out of it.

“I did not! I only said we should go to a café instead of _another_ bar, and this one happened to be—”

“Where these two lovebirds were holed up,” Phichit cuts in. “But seriously. We really don’t need anything more to drink.”

Viktor looks between Celestino and Minako, who’re leaning on each other and giggling. There’s a buzz around all of them, but whether that’s the drink or the atmosphere, Viktor can’t tell. Barcelona tonight feels like something special is happening around every corner, not just the one where Viktor found himself going down on one knee.

“Must be nice for you to be in a country where you can drink legally,” Yuuri says snidely. Phichit sticks out his tongue in response.

“So,” Chris says. “What have you two been up to?”

Viktor opens his mouth to say something, but Yuuri beats him to it, blurting out, “Nothing!”

Chris leans forward, chin resting on his hand. “Oh? And what does _nothing_ entail?”

“Oh, you know, mostly sightseeing,” Viktor says, trying to be smooth. His heart is beating too fast for him to tell whether it works or not. He flicks his scarf. “A bit of shopping.”

“I was going to go sightseeing,” Mari says, “but Minako got chatting to Yuuri’s old coach in the lobby, and they found out that their shared passion was getting drunk, so me and Phichit had to drag them away from the bar.”

“It was a _great_ bar,” Minako slurs, grinning.

Chris flags down a waiter and, while they order drinks, Viktor watches as Yuuri leans back and pulls himself back from the conversation. It’s understandable, given what an evening they’ve had, but it’s no less cause for concern. Everyone else is loud and boisterous and Yuuri is—Yuuri is Yuuri, and although he can seem fragile, he’s always stronger than everyone expects. This much Viktor has come to learn about him.

“You should try to do _some_ sightseeing while you’re here,” Viktor says. He looks pointedly at Yuuri when he says, “Barcelona Cathedral was lovely.”

Yuuri nearly chokes on his complimentary glass of water.

“Oh, is that so?” Phichit leans across the table. “I went by the Sagrada Familia before I made it back to the bar. I would love to see the Cathedral.”

“Find someone to take you to church,” Viktor says, winking.

“To _the_ church,” Yuuri says, very quickly. He’s sitting bolt upright now. “And the night markets—we found a lot of lovely stalls. Let me show you the keychains…”

“Show him the tag, too,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s hand almost reflexively clasps over his sleeve, which Viktor knows covers the ribbon that sealed their promise. “Why don’t you show off your scarf instead?”

“You know,” Chris says, “I feel like there’s a second conversation happening here.”

“If there was, it would be none of anyone’s business,” Yuuri says. He fixes Viktor with a stare. “Right, _Viktor_?”

Viktor is so used to Yuuri calling him _Vitya_ that he stumbles over the newly-unfamiliar sound of what Yuuri had always called him before, so it shouldn’t be weird—should it? It feels weird. It feels like Yuuri is picking on  him. It pulls Viktor abruptly out of his own head and into the reality of the situation. This is how couples tease each other; this is what they are now. Should he still call Yuuri his _boyfriend_? Is it too soon to start introducing him as his _partner_? And what about when it becomes—

“What about your future husband, Chris?” Phichit asks. “I thought you said he’s here with you.”

The conversation has moved on in Viktor’s inattention. The word _husband_ rings in his ears. Not yet, but—one day, and knowing that’s in the future for him and Yuuri gives Viktor possibly the best feeling he’s ever had.

“He’s with the Swiss ice dancers; they’re old friends,” Chris says. “It’s alright—we don’t need to spend all our time together.

Over the table, Viktor catches Yuuri’s eye. He must understand, without words, even though there is so much they still have to talk about.

“That’s too bad,” Phichit says. “I wanted to meet him before the wedding.”

Viktor stretches his leg out, and his foot meets Yuuri’s right away, the sides of their shoes pressing together. Any contact is enough contact, for now.

“You can do that tomorrow,” Chris says.

Tomorrow—the Grand Prix Final proper, a whole other world of worries, and Viktor will have to be Yuuri’s coach again, ever the professional, in his own way. It’s incongruous, then, with the way his heart flutters when they’re just playing footsie under the table, at the thought of going back to the same hotel room, sleeping in the same bed, of being _Yuuri’s_.

Until then, Viktor will play his role as long as he has to.

 

* * *

 

The hotel room seems very dark and very small in contrast to the moonlit streets of Barcelona.

“Tired?” Viktor asks.

It’s a trick question. Yuuri is face-down on the bed the moment they’re through the door; of course he’s tired. Viktor comes to sit beside him, one knee up on the bed and brushing against Yuuri’s side.

“Don’t let me socialise,” Yuuri says, “ever again.”

“I’ll remember that next time I want to take you on a date,” Viktor says. “We’ll have a night in rather than going out.”

“It’s not that, so much,” Yuuri says. He rolls onto his side, looking up at Viktor from beneath his long eyelashes. “I like going on dates with you. I even like seeing other people, sometimes.” He rolls his eyes. “But not all these things, all at once. It drains my batteries.”

Viktor shifts so he’s lying down next to Yuuri, their faces eye-level. “Was it… was _I_ too much for you?”

“A little,” Yuuri says. He has no filter when he’s tired—at least he’s honest.

A moment passes in silence. Viktor watches Yuuri’s chest rise and fall as he breathes. Viktor opens his mouth, but it’s Yuuri who breaks it by speaking first.

“Whenever someone has, uh, expressed interest in me, I’d think it was a cruel joke. When you—at the banquet last year—I never felt that once, and since then it’s been the same. I never thought you were faking it, or laughing at me, or… when you proposed to me, I knew you meant it.”

Viktor kisses Yuuri, just lightly. “I _do_ mean it. And you’ll tell me if I ever go overboard, won’t you?”

“I like it when you go overboard,” Yuuri says. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. It’s so easy to tell when you’re being sincere.”

“Funny,” Viktor says, “I spent so many years perfecting the art of hiding my feelings, making it so that no-one could tell what I was thinking.”

Yuuri flops sideways onto his back, looking up at the ceiling with a smile spreading across his features. “I guess that makes me special, because I can tell the difference.”

“And because you make it so easy for me to be myself,” Viktor says. “I never feel like I have to pretend, with you.”

“Vitya—” Yuuri’s hands fly up to cover his face but stop short of his eyes, which is good, because Viktor loves Yuuri’s eyes. “You must know how weird it is for me. I had all these expectations of you, and you’re none of them. You’re something more. I don’t know.”

“Tell me again about the banquet,” Viktor says. He slings a leg over both of Yuuri’s, and an arm around his middle, clinging like a sloth.  “About how we danced together. What music was playing?”

“Even I don’t remember that,” Yuuri says, amused.

“Then anything else? Anything you do remember?”

Yuuri hums. “You want a bedtime story?”

“I want to hear your voice,” Viktor says. “Tell me something else?”

“Okay, let’s see,” Yuuri relents. From the angle Viktor’s at, he can just see Yuuri’s lips turning up into a smile. “So, right before you tried to pole dance…”

 

* * *

 

The morning breaks late but the skies are blue and beautiful and Yuuri is still asleep, curled against Viktor’s side under the warm white sheets, his black hair splayed across the pillow. Viktor is awake, though, and restless, and he shifts, running his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and kissing him one last time before getting up to go shower.

Yuuri keeps sleeping, persistent through all of Viktor’s rustling around, so Viktor finds himself leaving the hotel room, getting breakfast, wandering through the hotel and out onto the streets and ending up by the water. He looks out over the glistening water joining the sky, the gulls calling, boats, pedestrians promenading and someone walking a dog, down on the beach—

It reminds Viktor of home. Both of them.

His tranquility doesn’t last long. He’s disturbed by, of all things, a foot sticking into his back. Viktor’s balance is better than toppling over the ledge and down into the sand, but he certainly feels like planting his head in the sand and disappearing, rather than having this conversation.

“Hey,” Yuri says. “What are you doing.”

He’s asking a question, but it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like he’s given up, resigned.

“What am I doing?” Viktor asks. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Are you still pretending to be a coach?”

Viktor smirks. “I’m not pretending. Are you still struggling with your _agape_?”

Yuri gets a look on his face like he wants to scream, but thankfully for Viktor, he doesn’t. He says, “My programmes are better than they’ve ever been. You think Katsuki can beat me like this? Katsuki doesn’t have a chance in hell.”

“Under my guidance—”

“Under your whatever,” Yuri says. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to win that gold medal and prove you wrong.”

“Oh, that’s what it is, huh?” Viktor leans down to look Yuri in the eye. He fancies he’s being a little patronising. “You’ve still got a chip on your shoulder because I ran away instead of choreographing for you. Even if I _did_ choreograph for you—”

Yuri’s glower alone cuts Viktor off. “So you admit you ran away.”

“Yes, I ran away,” Viktor says. “You know why.”

“I know why you _stayed_ ,” Yuri says, crinkling his nose. “How is—I haven’t seen Katsuki yet. Is he… ?”

It’s so adorably teenage that Viktor has to laugh. “Yuuri is sleeping. We can get dinner after the short programme if you want to catch up.”

“I don’t care,” Yuri says.

“Yes you do,” Viktor teases. “It’s okay to admit that you have a crush on him.”

Yuri goes all red and inflamed, like an angry balloon, and balls his hands into fists at his side. “I do _not_ —”

“Well, it wouldn’t matter, even if you did,” Viktor says lightly, “because we’re eng—”

Oh, maybe that’s not something he should share without Yuuri’s permission. Viktor imagines he might want to tell his parents and Mari first, and then Minako, and Viktor has more important people to tell, like Chris, and Yakov, and maybe his mother.

Unfortunately for his big plans, he has an even bigger mouth, and Yuri hears where the word is going without Viktor so much as having to finish it.

“You’re _engaged_?” His eyes bug out of his head. “What the fuck, Viktor! It hasn’t even been a year!”

Viktor puts his hands either side of Yuri’s face and smushes his cheeks together, so his lips stick out like a fish’s. “You mustn’t tell anyone. It only happened last night.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Yuri says.

His voice comes out funny with Viktor’s grip changing his face, so Viktor lets go, arms swinging beside him, and they stand in silence. The dog walker on the beach draws closer, a gull circles overhead. Even being antagonised, Viktor is so blisteringly happy.

After a long pause, Yuri says, “This place reminds me of Hasetsu.”

“Me too,” Viktor says. The weather isn’t the same, a dry winter bluster to Hasetsu’s rain and humidity, but there’s enough of a breeze that if Viktor closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there.

How funny, that he’d gone to Hasetsu looking for answers in someone else, and instead he’d found something inside himself he hadn’t known existed—a yearning to settle, for the first time in his life. It was selfish, that going there had been more about fixing his problems than becoming a coach. He can see that plainly with the benefit of hindsight. Maybe his problems aren’t perfectly fixed yet, and maybe the knots will only unravel when he gives them names, but for now, it’s progress. It isn’t all about him anymore.

When he opens his eyes again, Yuri is gone.

Viktor takes the shortest route back to the hotel and practically runs once he’s out of the lift. His swiftness is rewarded by the sight of his Yuuri fresh out of the shower, pulling on a bathrobe a few sizes too big.

“Vitya, you’re—” Yuuri takes a moment to recalibrate, shaking off his surprise. “You’re all windswept.”

Viktor runs a hand through his hair. “I went down to the beach, ran into Yurio.”

“Is he nervous?”

“Is he ever?’

Yuuri laughs at that, and closes the distance between himself and Viktor to press a light kiss to Viktor’s lips. He has to stand on his toes—it’s the cutest thing ever. Viktor leans into the kiss, pulling Yuuri closer and steadying them both with his arms around Yuuri’s sides, hands reaching to grab his bum. That only makes Yuuri laugh, and he breaks the kiss, flopping forward and resting his head on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Next time let me wake up beside you, okay?” He says it only one step above a whisper.

Viktor nods. Over the top of Yuuri’s head he can see the sun streaming in through the pristinely clear window, down to the water.

“So,” he says, conversational, but forced. “I accidentally told Yurio we’re engaged.”

As Viktor had expected, Yuuri pulls away from him immediately, and puts his palms flat to Viktor’s chest, giving him a light shove.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry, it just slipped out, I didn’t even finish the word but he guessed and—”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, looking at his outstretched arms and splayed fingers with something like awe, “we’re _engaged_.”

“Darling, did you forget?” Viktor covers his mouth, just in case he laughs at Yuuri’s expense. “I know we don’t have rings, but I hope you still intend to honour your promise to me.”

In response, Yuuri rolls up the sleeve of his bathrobe—the ribbon from last night is still there, dripping with water from his shower.

“Of course I didn’t forget,” Yuuri says. “It’s just that… it might take some time to sink in properly. Especially since you still don’t remember our first meeting.” That last part is said with a hint of accusation, but Viktor knows Yuuri doesn’t blame him, not really. He adds, “I have to pinch myself. This whole—us—still feels like a dream.”

“For me too,” Viktor says. “So you’re not mad I told Yurio?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “So long as he doesn’t go telling anyone else. Oh, this means I have to write to my parents, and—Mari and Minako are here, at least, and Phichit, Christophe, Celestino…”

He trails off.

“Weddings are a lot of work, aren’t they?”

“We don’t have to think about any of that,” Viktor says. “Not yet. Let’s focus on getting to the end of the season first, one step at a time. Your short programme—”

“Ah, _Eros_ ,” Yuuri says fondly. “The programme Viktor Nikiforov gave me to let everyone know he thinks I’m sexy.”

Viktor cringes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t pick up on that.”

“Nice try,” Yuuri says. He's holding back a laugh—Viktor knows the expression well. “We still have a bit of time until we need to leave… how about we do a quick rehearsal in here?”

“There’s not much space to dance in here,” Viktor says, looking around the hotel room.

“I didn’t mean _literally_ ,” Yuuri says.

After a split-second of confusion, Viktor works it out. “Oh, Yuuri, I—”

Yuuri takes a step closer, bathrobe slipping off one shoulder. “You got down on your knees for me last night,” he says. “It’s only fair that I return the favour.”

Viktor swallows, loosens the collar of his shirt, as Yuuri sinks to his knees in front of him. The bathrobe pools in the crooks of his elbows like a luxurious fur stole around the back of a black and white Hollywood starlet.

“Alright,” Viktor says, fingers sifting through Yuuri’s wet hair, “but only if you’ll allow me a rehearsal of my own—afterwards—”

 

* * *

 

 **v-nikiforov** _i hope you were all watching @ykatsuki skate “on love: eros” today! what a sexy performance!! #hesincredible #imaveryluckyman #hearteyes_

 

* * *

 

“I do this thing,” Yuuri says, “every time—I do terribly in the short programme, and I bounce back with the free skate. You have to understand, Vitya, it’s what I’m used to.”

They’re walking down the corridor into the stadium. Yuuri hasn’t stopped talking; a nervous habit.

“I understand, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

“So—so—what do I do? In this situation, when…  when I’m the one to beat? Am I supposed to give a perfect performance in the free skate? It’s always stronger, but—that’s always been because I need to come from behind. Vitya—”

“Yuuri.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. “I’m—”

Viktor wraps a hand around Yuuri’s wrist, the one adorned with the red ribbon, and Yuuri stops talking. Viktor goes on, “Your free skate has been beautiful all season, and it’s not going to stop being beautiful just because you’re already guaranteed a place on the podium.

Yuuri blushes at that. He’s never been good at accepting these truths.

“Anyway, you mustn’t think about your score when you’re skating,” Viktor adds. “You should think about the art you’re creating.”

“There’s no way I’ll get a gold medal against Yurio with my technical components the way they are,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “And JJ could come back from yesterday, but Chris will likely outstrip him, which means… I might miss the podium entirely.”

Yuuri is five points ahead of Yuri Plisetsky after the short programme. _Five points_. Viktor wonders if Yuuri ever thinks before he speaks. He’d bring it up, but Yuuri isn’t receptive to reason right now. His hand, still clasped in Viktor’s, is trembling. The Viktor who is here as a coach, both his and Yuuri’s pass lanyards slung around his neck, could prepare another pep talk, remind Yuuri again and again that he’s more than worth it, and that he has a gold medal to prove it.

Viktor, who is here as Yuuri’s boyfriend and fiancé, pulls him into an empty corridor and kisses him senseless.

“Don’t you ever—” he pulls Yuuri closer, kisses him harder, “—think that way about yourself. All you need to be is hopeful. Hopeful, and skating your best.”

“I like that qualifier,” Yuuri says with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, and Viktor has no idea what a qualifier is, so he kisses Yuuri again, and Yuuri kisses back, and they’re almost late to the warm-up.

Unfortunately, kissing doesn’t fix everything.

Yuuri is pacing, not warming up; he makes a round of the rinkside green room and turns off all the TV screens; he ignores Phichit, by all accounts his best friend; he ignores _Viktor_ , which is perhaps more troubling. When Phichit goes out to skate—he’s in last position after yesterday—Yuuri turns to despondent moping in a corner. And that won’t do at all.

“Come on,” Viktor says. “We’re going somewhere quiet.”

“Where?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor doesn’t know where. He just walks and walks until he can no longer hear the reverberant cheers of the crowd—at the far end of the corridor he finds a fire escape, and there is nowhere more secluded from the outside world than its cool concrete and metal railing, staircase packed tight and obscuring the walk both above and below.

“Breathe, Yuuri,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know what else to say. “Should I kiss you again?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri snaps.

Viktor takes the hint, and shuts up.

Yuuri leans back against the railing, clinging onto it with both hands, arms twisted behind his back. His breathing steadies, but slowly.

This is not like anything Viktor’s ever encountered. He doesn’t know how to bring Yuuri back from this, which words to use, if he can even use his words at all. It feels almost irredeemable. Unless… unless Viktor makes it about himself, not about Yuuri. What’s at the core of this is that Yuuri needs to know he’s good enough. If Viktor shoulders that blame—

“None of this is your fault,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t mean what he says next. “If you don’t perform well today, I’ll take responsibility by resigning as your coach at the end of the season, like you said I should from the beginning.”

Yuuri lakes a long, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

“O-okay? Yuuri, are you sure?”

Viktor doesn’t think he’s ever stuttered in his life. Always cool, collected, an answer for everything, a smile to fit around the awkward, unsure contours of his face. By now he ought to have expected this, that there’s no-one who can surprise him like Yuuri does.

“I’m sure,” Yuuri says. He nods, as though trying to make himself believe it. “I’m sure.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Viktor says, hastily covering his tracks. “I was trying to motivate you, trying to—”

“I know.” Yuuri gives Viktor a perfectly sad smile, the upturn of his lips never meeting the corner of his eyes. “I know you want to stay, but think about it, Vitya. If you and I are going to get married, then we need to focus more on that side of our relationship than this one.”

Viktor has nothing to say to that. Yuuri is, unfathomably, _right_.

“Even if I _do_ make the podium, I should still look for another coach,” Yuuri continues. “There are lots of coaches out there.” He unclenches his fists from around the railings, takes his and Viktor’s lanyards, still on Viktor’s shoulders, one in each hand. “There’s only one Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Yuuri—”

“Ah, I made you cry again,” Yuuri says. He has the temerity to _laugh_ about it. “Am I that cruel to you? I know you didn’t mean it, but I don’t want you to ever say anything like that again, okay?”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor says again, tasting salt as his tears reach his mouth, “I love you, I love you so much, I never want to leave you, I don’t care if I’m your coach or not, I—”

“I love you,” Yuuri says, and drops the lanyards, pulling Viktor into a hug. “You’ll still marry me?”

“I’ll marry you _more_ ,” Viktor says, which doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry I freaked you out,” Yuuri says. “You’ll have to get used to my anxiety once we’re married. Maybe before then.”

Viktor is certain of it when he says, “I will, I’ll do anything for you.”

“Then I’ll go out there and win a gold medal.” Yuuri’s resolve is back, all steel. “For you.”

“ _Another_ gold medal,” Viktor corrects him.

It’s rare for a men’s singles skater to win two consecutive Grand Prix Final golds in this climate, not least of all because for years, it had been Viktor winning them all, and Europeans, and Worlds. But the fact that he couldn’t participate in Four Continents meant that there was a chance for skaters from outside Europe to shine, and that must’ve been how Yuuri got his start.

The thought of Yuuri being the star of the show now, winning this Grand Prix and the next, and the one after that, meeting Viktor’s world record, or breaking it—it makes Viktor’s heart feel so full.

Maybe it’s not the most healthy thing in the world for Viktor to wager his whole happiness on Yuuri’s, but just for now, he’ll concede it.

“Are you ready to go back out?” he asks.

Yuuri nods, once, curtly. “Yeah. Vitya—thank you.”

“No,” Viktor says, “thank _you_.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor follows Yuuri out to the rink with a strange sort of clarity settling over the two of them. They don’t talk—Viktor’s voice is still hoarse from crying—and while Viktor feels everyone’s eyes on them, he doesn’t feel the need to look back. He will only ever have eyes for Yuuri.

“Watch closely,” Yuuri says, leaning down to take off his skate guards. “This is all for you.”

The story of the performance had been tied to Yuuri’s journey as a figure skater, but the music is all love song. Yuuri steps past the barrier and takes to the ice, warming up; Viktor watches, enthralled.

Rinkside, his free skate having just finished, Yuri Plisetsky is standing with Yakov and Lilia. Viktor missed most of Yuri’s performance, too busy making out in the fire escape. Now, he turns to Yuri to congratulate him.

“Well done, Yurio.”

“If you never call me that again, it’ll be too soon,” Yuri says. “Pity you didn’t see my whole performance. There’s no way your fiancé can—”

“ _Fiancé_?” Yakov growls. “Vitya, what is he talking about?”

Yuri slaps a hand over his own mouth. This is the first time Viktor has ever seen him looking genuinely contrite.

“So here’s the thing,” Viktor begins—but he doesn’t know how to go on, because he and Yuuri have barely talked about this between themselves, let alone decided how to tell other people. Yakov is like family. Viktor shouldn’t have had to tell him like this.

Before he has the chance to say anything else, Lilia mercifully swoops in, shouting, “Kiss and cry!” and drags Yuri away by the wrist, leaving Yakov with no choice but to follow.

He spares Viktor one last unreadable look. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Viktor stands, helpless, while Yuri’s scores are announced. But then, out on the ice, Yuuri Katsuki readies himself to perform, and Viktor forgets all about the explaining he’ll have to do. The moment the first notes sound, Viktor knows this performance is going to be different to any other. It’s something in his bearing, the fluidity of his posture, suggesting a sequence of movements that create the music, not the other way around.

No, more than that—it’s the jump composition. Viktor understands immediately what Yuuri’s done. He’s shifted it to have four jumps in the second half, raising the technical difficulty to be the same as Viktor’s had been when last he broke a world record, at the Rostelecom Cup before _that_ Grand Prix Final. If Yuuri lands all his jumps perfectly—which he will, even in the second half, because his stamina is far better than Viktor’s ever was—and with his consistently high PCS, he might even break Viktor’s world record.

Viktor feels a flash of jealousy at the thought. But, year after year, he broke the records he set, kept surprising people—isn’t it someone else’s turn now? It makes Viktor want to get back on the ice, but he knows he’s no longer fit enough to give Yuuri a run for his money. He’ll settle for joining Yuuri in his exhibition skate, and showing the world something different again.

Yuuri’s performance finishes with a flourish, one arm to his chest like a promise, the other flung out, reaching, pointed directly at Viktor, whose heart is beating so fast he may as well have skated for four and a half minutes too. The applause is raucous, roses and plush toys thrown from the audience and scattered around Yuuri’s feet. But Yuuri doesn’t bother to pick up anything—so rude to his fans!—he skates like he’s running for the edge of the rink.

When he makes it onto solid ground, Viktor is there to meet him. He throws his arms wide and Yuuri falls into them like it’s where he belongs, toppling forward but somehow managing to keep both of them upright.

“You,” Viktor says, “are _incredible_.”

Yuuri kisses him, then, full on the lips and in front of innumerable cameras and a crowded stadium. Yuuri kisses him with his hands either side of Viktor’s face and lets Viktor pull him into a tighter hug, lifting him off his feet. Yuuri kisses him like this is the first time, the last, the one that has to mean the most. It does.

Viktor lets Yuuri back down to his feet and Yuuri keeps kissing him. It doesn’t matter how much time is passing, or whether any time is passing at all. But they do have to stop eventually, if only so Yuuri can receive his score, and his inevitable medal. Viktor’s only consolation is the thought of how much kissing they’re going to do back in their hotel room that night.

“We should go,” Yuuri says. He’s the one to pull back, which is only fair. “Kiss—kiss and cry, I mean.”

The way he looks right now is a picture Viktor wants to remember forever, hair mussed—was that Viktor’s doing?—and painted with a sheen of sweat, sparkling like his bejewelled costume.

“It’s almost a pity I have to be your coach right now,” Viktor says, laughing.

“Don’t say that,” Yuuri says. “Even if this arrangement is only for this season—you’re the one who got me here. The way I skated today was for you.”

“All my best moves,” Viktor says. At Yuuri’s change in stance, something reproachful crossing his face, Viktor adds, “But you did them better.”

Yuuri sours. “Don’t speak too soon. You don’t know what my score will be.”

It’s a marvel, Viktor thinks, how everyone but Yuuri himself can see his brilliance. Yuuri sees only flaws, where there are invariably none. Yuuri walks with his shoulders hunched to the kiss and cry, looking at his feet, twisting his fingers together. He sits down and his eyes don’t meet the camera’s lens. His glasses are tucked into the pocket of Viktor’s suit jacket, and he doesn’t ask for them. He doesn’t want to see the scores.

“Is it bad?” Yuuri says.

Somewhere, in between his jubilant final pose and whatever adrenaline had propelled himself into Viktor’s arms, he’s convinced himself it could possibly have been _bad_.

“No, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “It’s—”

It’s a world record, it’s zero-point-four-six above Viktor’s world record, it’s _Yuuri’s_ world record. It’s another gold medal for the reigning gold medallist. It’s the final performance of the men’s singles skaters at the exhibition gala, it’s all eyes on him at the banquet. It’s _Viktor’s_ , too, in some roundabout way, the culmination of his coaching, impossibly.

Under his breath, Yuuri says, “Don’t do anything over-the-top now. There are too many cameras.”

Viktor wants to say, _And there weren’t before?_ —but he holds back, settles for placing an arm around Yuuri’s waist and pulling him close.

“You did brilliantly,” he says in Yuuri’s ear, quiet enough that the cameras won’t pick it up. “I can’t wait to see that gold medal around your neck. Maybe the medal, and nothing else—”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Please, can’t I kiss you?” Viktor is not good at holding back. “Everyone’s already seen.”

“We’re too close to the camera,” Yuuri says. “You can kiss me all you like later. I don’t want to be too shocking, all at once.”

“You’re right,” Viktor says. “If this is shocking, then think of the havoc your exhibition skate will cause.”

“ _Our_ skate,” Yuuri corrects him.

He pauses, thinking it over. There are reporters lining up around the kiss and cry to have a word with the new world record holder, cameras flashing, and there are the other skaters to talk to, to congratulate, to commiserate.

“On second thoughts,” Yuuri says, and kisses Viktor again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus ends barcelona! next chapter will be a sort of coda to the fic, because i really stopped caring about matching the anime episode-for-episode.
> 
> side note: in this universe, yuuri already has one international gold medal. mentally, he's in a much better place than in canon. for a bit of an insight into my process, i fully intended to give yurio the gold medal, until last week, when i decided nah, bugger that, i wanted yuuri to get gold. speaking of yurio... he spent most of this chapter having adventures in friendship with otabek, as in canon. he's very proud of his silver medal. he doesn't mind losing to his idol. and otabek has bronze, because i'm team #otabekwasrobbed.


	12. Episode 12

**@v-nikiforov** _some good news and some bad news. the bad news first: now that the season has ended, i will be stepping down as @ykatsuki’s coach. coaching yuuri has been the experience of a lifetime, but both of us need to move on. the good news is that we will be moving to saint petersburg so yuuri can train under my old coach, yakov feltsman. i will be sticking with yuuri as his choreographer, and as his fiancé <3 here’s to another successful season for the world #1!_

 

* * *

 

“And you’re sure you’ve got everything? Toothpaste? Do you remember how long it took you to adjust to American toothpaste?”

Viktor’s Japanese is good enough now to understand Hiroko fussing over Yuuri at the entrance to the resort—or exit, depending on your perspective. And it really is an exit for them; this isn’t the first time Yuuri’s been uprooted from his home to move somewhere drastically different, and Viktor feels bad for stealing him away from Hasetsu, even though this was all Yuuri’s decision. Yuuri organised for Yakov to coach him without so much as consulting with Viktor, and then announced that they would be moving to Saint Petersburg once the season was over.

“Did you love it that much on your single day there?” Viktor had asked. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I loved being there with you,” Yuuri said, “and as far as I’m concerned, that’s reason enough.”

Still, Viktor has been doing his best to have misgivings, because he’s learnt from experience that leaving Yuuri leeway to change his mind is the best way to make sure he’s certain about a decision. Yuuri seems certain about this one. And they’ll come back to Hasetsu—this, now, is where they gravitate.

“Yes, I’ve got toothpaste,” Yuuri says. “Mum—don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry,” she says, patting his shoulders.

Yuuri casts a glance over his shoulder at Viktor and rolls his eyes, affectionately. Turning back to Hiroko, he says, “I have Vitya to worry about me now.”

“I’m going to worry _so_ much,” Viktor assures her.

Chiefly, he’s worried about Yuuri picking up Russian the same way he himself has taken to Japanese. He knows Yuuri’s good with languages, but he’s _so_ good at English that Viktor sometimes wonders how he’ll shape himself into a new mindset. With time, he’s sure.

“Vicchan needs someone to worry about him too,” Hiroko says. “But you’re well-suited to that already, aren’t you?”

It takes Viktor a minute to realise she means him. Little Vicchan isn’t coming with; he well and truly belongs at the resort, where he stayed for five years without Yuuri. Viktor knows it’ll be hard for Yuuri to be separated again, and they’d briefly considered getting another dog in Saint Petersburg, but the two of them will be so busy that they’d need a regular dog walker, and anyway Viktor isn’t sure he’s ready to share Makkachin’s space with a third.

They’ll have each other. That’s a good start.

Yuuri reaches out a hand behind him, and by now Viktor knows to take it almost reflexively. “We’ll be fine, mum,” Yuuri says.

Toshiya pats Yuuri on the shoulder and says something too fast for Viktor to catch. Yuuri’s reply is, “I’ll miss you too.”

Mari has been silent the entire time—that’s just her way. Still, she comes to Viktor’s side while Yuuri’s parents are hugging him over and again, and nudges his elbow. “We got used to having you around.”

“I got used to it, too,” Viktor says. His voice comes out unexpectedly thick with sentiment. “We’ll come back after Chris’ wedding, before the season starts, once we’re all settled in Saint Petersburg.”

“ _Yuuri_ might,” Mari says. “Do you think you’ll be able to study part-time _and_ follow Yuuri all around the world?”

In Viktor’s heart, the answer is unquestionably yes, but in practicality he knows something will have to give. He’s Yuuri’s choreographer, not his coach, and there’s no real reason for him to go to all of Yuuri’s events. And he’s not worried about leaving Yuuri alone and at the mercy of the colourful characters at his new home rink. It’s more that he _wants_ to be with Yuuri, wants to be wherever Yuuri is.

So he doesn’t give Mari an answer, because he doesn’t yet know himself.

Yuuri is the one who answers, from where he’s squished between Hiroko’s arms, with a pointed look in Viktor’s direction: “If Viktor misses a quiz or an assignment because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Point taken,” Viktor says.

The decision to go to university hadn’t been an easy one. It’s the balance between sticking to Yuuri’s side like glue and doing something wholly for himself, just this once. In the end, the degree in linguistics had won out. He’ll be doing ice shows, and modelling, and choreographing, but Viktor wants to be known as something more than what he already is. He wants to have dimensions, unexpected sides to him. He wants to be like Yuuri.

“You’d better hurry up,” Mari says, “if you want to make your train.”

Yuuri half-heartedly prises himself out of his mother’s grip and checks his watch. “Minako’s not here yet. She doesn’t need to be, not for a while—we’ll be fine.”

Maybe it’s that Viktor is excited—he doesn’t want to leave Hasetsu, but he’s longing to be in Saint Petersburg, to start this new chapter of his life, the one where he and Yuuri are left to their own devices and start afresh, building from the bottom up.

And although Yuuri’s family worry about him—worry about _both_ of them—there’s no need. Minako is there to give them a lift not a minute later, and they’re even early for their train. And—they have each other, which is miles ahead of the place Viktor was wallowing in this time last year.

He’s getting so much better.

 

* * *

 

Being back in Saint Petersburg doesn’t feel _final_ yet. This is, in part, because they’re still settling, in part because Viktor refuses to go to back to the rink or to his campus orientation or anywhere, really—they’ve been doing fine living off what was already in the fridge and ordering fast food. It’s not that he needs the time to readjust. At least, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t need more than this, content to be here with Yuuri, taking advantage of finally having a place that’s theirs and theirs alone.

Yuuri has been out, though. He’s already started training with Yakov, eager to get a head start before they go off to France for two weeks, and he’s picked up Russian classes at a community centre not far from the flat.

Waking up in bed with Yuuri every morning, waiting for him to come home at the end of the day— _this_ feels final, like Viktor won’t need anything more than this relationship, all-consuming and without reservations.

“You should come to the community centre with me,” Yuuri says, leaning over the kitchen counter. He’s making katsudon, to celebrate finding a supermarket with a whole aisle devoted to food imported from all over Asia. “There’s a Japanese class starting soon.”

“I’m enrolled in first year Japanese already,” Viktor says. “Why the rush? Do you just want my company, darling?”

Yuuri looks away; it’s how Viktor can tell he’s blushing. “Well, you speak Saga-ben, and your accent is atrociously foreign. You should get a head start on standard pronunciation and grammar.”

“I’ll see,” Viktor says, which is code for, _Anything for you_.

Which, of course, turns into a definite _yes_. Viktor leaves the flat for the first time in days to go to the shops, and he buys a notebook and five ballpoint pens for his Japanese lessons. He even finds a cute pencil case, with a cartoon dog on it. It’s not “too soon” anymore.

He meets Yuuri at the rink so they can go to the community centre together. The sliding doors seem almost daunting now that Viktor has put so much distance between himself and his erstwhile competitive skating career.

His only consolation—Yuuri is still on the ice, skating circles around the competition, who Viktor supposes would count as his rinkmates now. Yuuri still has minimal Russian, and Yakov minimal English, and Yuuri’s said they’ve been communicating mostly in gestures. Viktor sees that now, in the way Yakov motions with his hands spread wide for _broader, more_ , and Yuuri follows by lifting his leg higher into the spin. This is still an old routine. Viktor’s choreography will come later.

Yuuri falls out of the spin when he catches sight of Viktor by the barrier. He picks himself back up to his feet and waves, calling out in Russian, “Vitya, you’re here at last!”

Proving, with what he’d call an atrociously foreign accent, that Viktor never really had to worry about anything on the language front.

“I’m here,” Viktor says. He decides to test Yuuri’s Russian: “Are you ready for your dashing and handsome fiancé to whisk you away to the community centre?”

Yakov gives Viktor a familiar look. He’d almost missed this disapproval.

“I don’t understand,” Yuuri says, as he comes off the ice. In English. “Something about the community centre?”

“Something like that,” Viktor says. He pulls Yuuri into his arms. They’ve only been apart five, maybe six, hours—it’s too many.

If it were up to Viktor, he’d continue to lavish Yuuri with all the love and affection in the world until they inevitably have to separate for their language classes. The universe is not working in his favour. Yuuri pulls away to go and unlace his skates, and Yakov comes up to Viktor to so cruelly monopolise his time.

“It’s decent of you to show your face around here,” Yakov says. “Yuuri needs choreography if he’s going to compete in the next season.”

“We’re not settling just yet,” Viktor reminds him. “Aw, didn’t Chris invite you to his wedding?”

Yakov scoffs. “You know he didn’t. I’m getting too old for all this travel, anyway.”

Viktor is not proud of himself, but he does panic. “What? You’re not thinking of retiring, are you?”

“Unfortunately not.” Yakov looks out across the rink; at the far end, Agata’s working with the juniors, Mila is antagonising Georgi, and closer to where they’re standing, Yuuri is talking to two young men who Viktor doesn’t know. Yakov says, “You’d have to drag me away kicking and screaming.”

“When I’m back from France, I’ll be saying that too,” Viktor says. “You’ll wish you’d retired ten years ago.”

Yakov shakes his head; he doesn’t meet Viktor’s eyes. “Who would’ve coached you to all of those gold medals?”

Thankfully, Viktor is saved from having to lighten the tone with something rude—the sentiment hangs unsaid between them as Yuuri returns.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Dmitriy wants me to advise him on his step sequences, and Aurelijus needed help picking music. They’re good about speaking to me in English, and I don’t mind helping, but… they seem to think I have all the answers.”

“You _are_ the world number one,” Viktor reminds him.

He does not mention that he doesn’t have the faintest idea who Dmitriy and Aurelijus are. When was the last time he paid attention to the other people at the rink, apart from the ones who medalled anywhere near as frequently as he did? It’s a good thing he’s taking community classes. Viktor thinks maybe he ought to make some friends.

“I don’t—I mean, I know I am,” Yuuri stutters, “but it’s not like I’m the best skater they could ask about these things.”

“Do you hear yourself when you open your mouth?” Viktor teases. “Yuuri, how many times! You’re the best there is. You’re perfectly qualified to be giving advice to younger skaters.”

“Aurelijus is only a year younger than me,” Yuuri says. What matters, though, is that he doesn’t try to deny it. That he’s the best there is. Viktor needs everyone to know this. He needs _Yuuri_ to know it.

“After class,” Viktor says, changing the subject swiftly, “will the world number one let me take him out for dinner?”

“Well, you do need to get out more…”

“Exactly!” Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand and swings it between them. “So that’s a yes?”

Yuuri smiles, pulling Viktor closer to him. “It’s always a yes with you.”

 

* * *

 

When Viktor walks into a room, all eyes are on him. He’s used to it. It never made him uncomfortable until now.

The other students taking Beginner’s Japanese, milling about in the corridor outside the classroom, stop in the middle of their conversation and turn to stare. This isn’t the awed staring of fellow competitors and journalists, this is prying, trying to peel back the layers of masks and expose the real person underneath, and Viktor isn’t ready for that, not even if they want to be his friends, not yet.

Then, a veritable miracle—he spots a familiar face. Veronika, from the flight to Moscow for the Rostelecom Cup. Viktor could cry.

She recognises him too, and she must notice how awkward this silence is becoming, because she says, “Viktor! You made it!”

“You know him?” one of the others asks, incredulous.

“We go back,” Veronika says. She cocks her head, challenging any of them to say anything else.

“That’s right,” Viktor confirms hastily, “old friends!”

The woman who’d spoken before says, “So you are _the_ Viktor Nikiforov? Why are you learning Japanese?”

Does nobody follow figure skating anymore? It’s over a year since Viktor moved to Hasetsu to coach Yuuri, fell in love with Yuuri, resigned as his coach. So much has happened in such little time; all these people who know his face have no idea what his life is like.

“My fiancé is Japanese,” he says. “I lived in Hasetsu with him for a year—that’s in Kyushu—but now we’ve moved here, so he’s learning the language, and he’s making me improve my Japanese.”

“That’s not fair,” someone else says. “You have a head start.”

Viktor proudly shakes his head. “No, I speak my fiancé’s regional dialect. It’s very different.”

“Is this fiancé the Yuuri I met?” Veronika asks.

Well, since she asked… it’s like opening the floodgates and letting all the water in the dam burst forth. “Yes, that’s him! Yuuri is the men’s singles world number one—in figure skating, that is—Yuuri Katsuki, maybe you’ve heard of him. He just picked up another gold at Worlds. He’s won the Grand Prix Series _twice_. And he’s just beautiful—he’ll be doing some modelling for Dior during the off-season, and—”

The classroom door swings open, someone who must be their teacher poking her head out. “Beginner’s Japanese? I won’t be a minute. Just talk among yourselves.”

She disappears again, but Viktor’s train of conversation is well and truly derailed. His mouth hangs open dumbly, and the other students are staring at him. This is who the living legend really is: an awkward weirdo with a bad habit of running his mouth off about his beautiful fiancé. Viktor has never been good in social situations like this. He’s also never had a problem laughing at himself—but he’s never had the opportunity.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says, waving a hand. “We’ve only been engaged a few months. I can’t shut up about him!”

The others seem to relax after that. It seems like there are only seven of them, including Viktor—a small class—and they introduce themselves in turn. They’re all visibly older than Viktor, and once the social barrier of his fame is gone, he’s looking forward to them treating him like a kid. He’s so used to people looking up to him; he wants to see what it’s like on the other side.

Viktor gives the group his best smile. “So I’ve told you my story—why are all of you learning Japanese?”

Larisa, who’d asked Viktor why he was learning before, says, “Veronika and I work for the same animation studio. We’ve been working with a team in Japan, so we need to learn the language, at least a bit.”

Which explains what Veronika had been doing on a flight from Fukuoka, and why she had been drawing Viktor in life drawing classes in the first place.

“I’m the same as you, Viktor,” Nikol says. She seems younger than the others, and more shy. This is only the second time she’s spoken after introducing herself, but now she meets Viktor’s eyes as she says, “My girlfriend lives in Kyoto. We met online.”

“Oh, how awful,” Viktor says. “I was apart from Yuuri for two days last year; I couldn’t _bear_ it.”

Veronika raises her eyebrows. “Are you for real—”

“Life. _Goals_ ,” Nikol says. She clasps her hands together. “Where did you meet? How did you keep in touch while you were apart? Ah—sorry, is that too invasive?”

“I don’t mind,” Viktor says, winking. “I’m used to far worse from the media.”

And, in the time they have before class starts, Viktor finds it easier to answer her questions than any interviewer’s.

Japanese lessons very quickly become one of the highlights of his week.

 

* * *

 

They’ve booked an early flight, nine in the morning with Aeroflot to Charles de Gaulle, because check-in at the hotel in Lyon closes early in the afternoon, and it’s another two hours on the TGV once they land in Paris.

Viktor wakes up feeling refreshed—his stamina has been improving, and he’d managed a whole hour and a half of what Yuuri’s dubbed “bedroom exercise” last night. He would be more proud of this, if Yuuri didn’t look like death itself combed his hair and splashed that drop of water on his face which he considered a reasonable substitute for a shower. Viktor has never been more embarrassed by his (admittedly, still beautiful) fiancé.

“I still say you should’ve showered,” Viktor says, as Yuuri’s head droops onto his shoulder in the back of their taxi. “Such a long journey ahead of us…”

“Don’t want to,” Yuuri grumbles.

“But you smell so beautiful when you use my aftershave.” Viktor shifts the arm wedged behind Yuuri’s back and scratches Yuuri’s chin, messy with stubble. “If only you’d shaved.”

Yuuri sluggishly bats at Viktor’s hand. “Lazy.”

“I _know_ you’re lazy,” Viktor says. “We’re going to arrive at the hotel and all of Chris’ wedding party is going to be there, and I’ll have to apologise for my fiancé, who not only can’t speak French, but hasn’t shaved in two days, and is dressed like a creature from the bottom of a swamp.”

“You’re so kind to your fiancé.”

Yuuri pokes his nose against Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor willingly moves aside to make more room for him. He’s already right up in the corner of the backseat.

“I still love you, my beautiful swamp-dweller.”

“So kind,” Yuuri says, then his head lolls, and he’s asleep again.

They have a lot of luggage to haul out of the taxi—one week in Lyon for the wedding, which is at a vineyard a short drive north of the city, then another in Paris for no reason other than to have a holiday, while Chris is off in the Azores for his honeymoon. Yuuri is adamant that he’ll take Viktor out to his first laundromat; Viktor hasn’t worked in a while, but he’s adamant he has enough money for the hotel’s cleaning service.

By the time Viktor has single-handedly shepherded their three suitcases and two carry-on backpacks out of the boot and onto the pavement, Yuuri is a little more alert. He’s yawning and raising his arms to stretch, Viktor’s sloppy sweater pooling around his elbows.

“I take it back,” Viktor says. “You’re exquisite. I don’t think you’ve ever seen a swamp in your life.”

“A what?” Yuuri blinks and rubs his eyes. He’s otherworldly when he’s tired.

“Never mind. Let’s go in and get some breakfast.”

Yuuri nods, and trails after Viktor like he’s lost. Which, on reflection, he is—Viktor keeps forgetting that Saint Petersburg isn’t familiar to Yuuri at all. He fits in so well, or maybe he just fits into Viktor’s life.

They find a café that’s already open and Yuuri minds the bags while Viktor orders him a large coffee. For himself, just a bottle of water—now that he’s not skating regularly anymore, he really needs to watch his weight. When he comes back, Yuuri’s scrolling through something on his phone.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Calendar,” Yuuri says. “Two weeks is a long time to be away. I’m missing two weeks of Russian.”

“You should ask someone to take notes for you,” Viktor says. “That’s what I’m doing. Irinei has this app on his phone that’s like a scanner—I don’t even need to wait to get paper copies!”

Yuuri looks up from his phone and gives Viktor a gentle smile. “You’re really getting on with your class, aren’t you?”

“That’s right! You need to meet Nikol—you’ll love her—and Yulian and Nadezhda want to have us over for dinner some time—oh, and Veronika wants to learn to skate, so I told her we’d—” He cuts himself off abruptly as the weight of Yuuri’s words sink in. “You haven’t made friends yet, have you?”

“It’s not like I need friends!” Yuuri says hastily. “I have everyone at the rink. Aurelijus wanted to invite me over for a LAN party, but I…”

“You?”

“The language is still a problem,” Yuuri says, “and it’s not going to stop being a problem just because I’m learning it. No-one else in my Russian class speaks English as well as I do. No-one at the rink. But I’m _fine_ , Viktor.”

“I’m allowed to worry about you,” Viktor says. He says it harsher than he intends, but he’s come to associate Yuuri using his full name with Yuuri in a bad mood, which means Viktor in a bad mood. He apologises immediately: “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

Sometimes he’s so caught up in how good Yuuri has been for him that he forgets to be good for Yuuri, too.

“I know,” Yuuri says. “I’m grateful, really. And I’m looking forward to spending time with your friends from the community centre.”

“And our holiday?” Viktor presses.

Yuuri puts down his phone and takes a sip of the coffee. He’s a tea drinker, but tiredness is tiredness, and caffeine is caffeine. Viktor knows exactly how tired Yuuri needs to be to make an exception.

Now, he hums, tapping the rim of the coffee cup. “We’ll do all the tourist-y things. Sightseeing, wine tasting—when you’re not busy being a best man, I’ve always wanted to do it in a vineyard.”

Viktor feels like he learns something new about Yuuri every day. “Have you really?”

There’s a very long silence in between his question and Yuuri’s answering laugh.

“No, of course not!” Yuuri covers his mouth. “Why am I like this when I’m tired?”

“Because I wouldn’t mind,” Viktor says. “If you wanted to. Do it in a vineyard, that is.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Vitya, no! I mean, maybe. If the weather is good. But that’s not what we should be focusing on! Do you have your boarding pass?”

“Don’t try to distract me from our planning,” Viktor says. He pulls his phone out from his pocket. “Let me just check the weather—”

 

* * *

 

It’s beautiful all week in Lyon, clear skies and only the most refreshing of breezes, the sun high in the sky as Viktor steps into a church, for the first time in his life not as an architecturally-minded tourist, to bear witness as his best friend ties the knot.

Viktor cries. Of course he cries. Yuuri cries too. Chris doesn’t cry, that’s not who he is—he gets good mileage out of making fun of Viktor for it, at least.

The wedding reception is held that night in an outdoor ballroom overlooking the vineyard, canopied with twisting periwinkle and honeysuckle across wooden bowers held up on limestone pillars. It’s as the sun is setting, a string quartet playing, and Chris and Thierry are at the centre of the couples dancing across the wooden boards, coattails blown by the fresh breeze.

Viktor is pleasantly buzzed from the champagne and his limbs sluggish from too much cake. It feels like every colour in his vision is somehow _more_ , bolder, brighter, more saturated than he remembers them being before. Yuuri leads him in a waltz, shirt unbuttoned and on the verge of informality.

“We should do this more often,” Viktor says.

Yuuri looks up at him curiously. “Waltz? We could find ballroom classes when we get home.”

That Yuuri is now referring to Saint Petersburg as _home_ —Viktor’s heart leaps in his chest. He lets go of Yuuri’s hand for a moment to gesture across the dancefloor and says, “No, I mean, going to weddings.”

“Like our own,” Yuuri says.

“Like our own,” Viktor agrees. He tangles his fingers back through Yuuri’s. “We’ll need to get you a new tie for the occasion, though. Still wearing this ugly old thing.”

Viktor frees his hand again, to Yuuri’s evident consternation, and tugs Yuuri’s tie loose from where it’s lodged beneath his suit jacket.

“I happen to _like_ this tie,” Yuuri says. “This is the tie I was wearing when I confessed my love for you at the JSF press conference.” He sighs. “And you didn’t even understand what I was saying.”

This is a point of contention between them, almost a running joke. Yuuri seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of every one of Viktor’s minor failings, and uses them as leverage to get Viktor to do things for him around the flat, like play with his hair while he watches Russian television and takes notes on the slang he picks up, or smile for him whenever either of them are moping. These are things Viktor would do without being asked, but he loves the chase, pretending that he’s anything but embarrassingly easy, holding out until Yuuri teases him into it.

So Viktor says, “What are you trying to get me to do this time?” in Russian, and tips his head back to laugh when Yuuri gives him an unimpressed scowl.

“English, please.”

“Anything for you,” Viktor says in Japanese. Then, back in English: “I’m serious, though. I’ll buy you a whole new suit for the wedding. And a ring.”

The one thing they haven’t bought yet. And without rings, the promise remains exactly that—a promise, and no more.

“I don’t need any of that to marry you, Vitya,” Yuuri says, amused.

It strikes Viktor then, like a sea of floodlights in his head all switched on at once. “You’re right. Let’s get married right now!”

“Right now?” Yuuri blinks. “You mean, walk back to the church and ask the priest to marry us?”

Viktor cringes. “Married by a _Catholic_? I’d rather live in sin.”

“I know you’re joking, but—”

“A secular wedding,” Viktor says. “We’re from different backgrounds—don’t you think something neutral would be best?”

Yuuri nods, keeping his head bowed in what Viktor recognises as an attempt to hide his blush. “Yeah.”

“So not _right now_ ,” Viktor says, “but soon. When we’re back in Paris. It won’t be recognised in Russia or Japan, but it could be real for us.”

“I want that more than anything,” Yuuri says. He makes it sound like a very private admission.

Viktor can’t help it—he pulls Yuuri in for a kiss just as the music swells, the sound of a deep note on the cello reverberating across the floorboards and up through the soles of his shoes to make Viktor’s skin feel electric, and the point where his lips meet Yuuri’s even moreso.

“But you’ll let me buy you a ring, won’t you?”

“Only if you let me buy you one that matches,” Yuuri says.

“Deal,” Viktor says. He is so, _so_ in love.

Yuuri gives Viktor the softest of smiles, draws him closer. Sometimes, they don’t need words to articulate what needs to pass between them. All they need is this—hands linked, hips bumping together as they dance across the floorboards. It’s the perfect moment, and it might as well just be the two of them, if not for all the noise of footfall echoing around the small space, the swirling sonority of the music, Chris’ voice calling out to them—

“Viktor! Yuuri! I’ve set up your _present_ inside.”

Their _present_ —extra weight on the word, because it wasn’t something off the registry, but a gift from both of them, as a couple—is a motorised pole, for when Chris wants to exercise but doesn’t want to leave the house. Viktor had suggested buying one for themselves too, so that Yuuri could teach him a few tricks, but Yuuri had vetoed it on the grounds that he didn’t think they could keep their hands off one another for long enough to hold on to the pole.

“Are we going to get a live demonstration?” Viktor asks. He’s talking to Chris, but he’s looking at Yuuri.

“It wouldn’t be a party without someone taking their trousers off,” Chris says, winking. “And, damn it all, I’m a married man.”

“So it can’t be you?” Viktor is still looking at Yuuri. “In that case—”

“No, not, it can definitely be me.” When Viktor looks back at Chris, he’s raising and lowering his eyebrows, a suggestive force of habit. “But I can’t dance with Yuuri, or I’m afraid Thierry will be jealous, and I’m _very_ into that—we’d have to leave immediately.”

Viktor leans all his weight onto Yuuri’s arm, giggling. “Oh, we’re like that too.”

“Moving on,” Yuuri says, pulling Viktor upright. “What did you mean, then?”

“I meant a married man needs to _celebrate_ ,” Chris says. “But I don’t want to do it without my best friends. Come on.”

As he leaves them again to head back indoors, Viktor turns to Yuuri. “How about it, fiancé?”

Yuuri looks up at Viktor, all innocence, only the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “Well,” he says, “we can’t let a man down on his wedding day.”

“Maybe afterwards you’ll dance for me,” Viktor says.

Yuuri doesn’t respond—he knows and Viktor knows what the answer is—and as he takes the lead, looks over his shoulder to make sure his hand meets Viktor’s, and pulls him forward, unquestioning.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the rings they choose aren’t extravagant. They’re plain gold bands, matching, from a jewellery store they’d passed on the way to the registry office.

It’s probably a good thing that Viktor doesn’t spend too much on the rings, like he’d intended. Instead, his money is going to the extra two weeks in Paris, because as it turns out, foreign couples can’t get married in France unless they’ve been living there for thirty days. In the extra time they have, Viktor makes sure they get well-acquainted with the Louvre, and in the evenings Viktor catches up on his Japanese homework, and teaches Yuuri the kind of Russian he’ll never get from a night class at a community centre. For when it’s too overwhelming to play the tourist, there’s an ice rink not far from their hotel.

On the thirty-first day, there’s a light rain blowing through the city like mist and Viktor’s umbrella rests in a wire stand by the entrance doors, dripping water on the carpet—water that fell when he and Yuuri were engaged, and nothing more. Now, he walks back into the rain with a weight around his right ring finger—the right as they wear it in Russia, sending an unequivocal message to anyone’s hand he happens to shake—keeping it dry as he puts up the umbrella and holds it over himself and his—

“ _Husband_ ,” Yuuri says wonderingly. His mouth hangs open, but he doesn’t speak any further.

“This is the most impulsive thing I’ve done since moving to Japan the day after I saw that video of you,” Viktor says, because he wants to keep up the illusion that a month-long holiday still counts as a shotgun wedding. Nobody knows why they extended their stay.

“What am I going to tell my parents?” Yuuri his cradling his right hand in his left like it’s a baby bird with a sore foot. “What are we going to tell everyone else?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says honestly. “But I want to tell _everyone_ , whoever I can. I want a t-shirt that says, _I am married to_ —”

“Vitya, stop it,” Yuuri says, nudging him.

“— _Yuuri Katsuki, the greatest figure skater in the world_ ,” Viktor finishes. “How does that sound?”

“Embarrassing,” Yuuri says. “I can’t believe I’m _married_ to you.”

“I can,” Viktor says, poking his tongue out. “I’ve never been happier.”

And he means it. Being with Yuuri has taught him how to relax, how to care for someone else in his life, how to smile like he doesn’t have anything to hide. Since he’s come out the other end of the lowest he’s ever been, Viktor has started crying from joy, not from sadness. He had cried in the registry office, when he signed his name. He’d cried when Yuuri had signed his name. He lets himself feel—openly—and he knows that if it’s ever too much, he has someone he can rely on.

Yuuri checks his watch, on his left wrist. He lifts up his right hand to look at his ring finger, then back to his watch. “It’s a bit early for dinner, but do you want to find somewhere to eat?”

Viktor hums. “No, I want to stay in. I’ll get room service.”

“I’ll pay,” Yuuri says. “Don’t argue—you’re paying for the honeymoon. I need to get you a wedding present.”

“Does it count as a honeymoon if it happened before we were married?” Viktor asks.

“It’s not like we can afford anything after this.” Yuuri pulls one of Viktor’s hands down from the umbrella—it sways, but ultimately stays upright—and twines their fingers together. “Besides, I need to get back to the rink, and you have to choreograph me two routines for the next season.”

“I wonder if I’ll miss being your coach,” Viktor says. He’s almost too distracted to talk, by the cool metal of Yuuri’s ring between two of his own fingers. “It’ll be weird to be so distant from the sport.”

“I’ll still take you to competitions,” Yuuri says. “You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Viktor wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s a new person, so different to who he was when he last captured the public eye as a competitor, and someone new still compared to who he was as a coach. He can’t wait to show this side of himself to the world. Which gives him an idea…

“Are you still worrying about how we’re going to tell people about—this?”

“I’m always worrying,” Yuuri deadpans. “I mean, yes. Obviously. I know that look; what are you thinking of?”

Viktor pulls aside, off the street and under the awning of a closed store. He shakes down his umbrella and props it up against the building’s brick wall, and gets his phone out of his pocket, balancing it precariously in his left hand, so his right is free. Yuuri is an artwork in the half-light, looking up at Viktor with nervous determination, which is exactly how Viktor feels. This is just the beginning, he tells himself. The first step of many.

“Yuuri, give me your hand—”

 

* * *

 

 **@v-nikiforov** _surprise! #justmarried_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who's been reading! i'm very attached to this fic, and most grateful for the support. special thanks to the friends who've let me brainstorm with them along the way, in particular aji, lori, and meg, who kindly looked over this chapter for me. and full credit for the wedding present pole goes to enabler-in-chief spooky.
> 
> stay tuned for a sequel; nothing too big, just a bit of a look at the future from yuuri's POV. i've had too much fun playing around with this 'verse to let it go so easily, but i do need to take a little break to work on other things, since this has been a 3+ month labour of love and forcing myself to stick to deadlines and meet goals. i've never done anything quite like this or written this much in such a timeframe. overall, i think i'm a much better writer now than i was when i began it :)


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